Mohinder Suresh and the Quest for the Cure
by takethesky87
Summary: When the FBI approaches the Helix Foundation with a request, Mohinder finds himself thrown into another adventure - one that brings up a past he thought he'd left far behind. Mohinder/Peter. Adaptation of "Raiders" with Heroes characters.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **This is a _Heroes_ AU, set in the 1930s but after the events of season 1. It was written for the reel_heroes community on Livejournal as an adaptation of _Raiders of the Lost Ark_.**  
Rating:** T for mild language, violence, some non-explicit romance-y stuff - nothing worse than what you'd find in _Raiders_.**  
Warnings: **Eventual character death.  
**Spoilers:** Through all of season 1 of _Heroes_, and for all of _Raiders of the Lost Ark_.  
**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything but the words.

* * *

**Mohinder Suresh  
and the Quest for the Cure**

**I.**

Mohinder Suresh had always heard that Hawaii's landscape reflected paradise. The air drifted warmly around your shoulders, they'd say, flowers blooming like crayons in a flood of green and sand, and the ocean shone so blue that cloudless waves seemed to dissolve into the cresting skies. The sun was supposed to glitter and shimmer and pull the deepest hues out of your eyes; and at dusk the blueness melted to mango, its juices skimming over the water's surface until stars poked through the surf.

He remembered these things bitterly as he trudged through the thick, heavy jungles of Kauai, dark face shining with sweat as the tropics dripped from his chin and clung to the back of his shirt. Paradise indeed. He adjusted the bag across his chest, letting some of the fabric of his button-down unstick itself from his skin, and tugged the brim of his tattered fedora for good measure.

"Almost there, I think," Hiro huffed, trailing a few paces behind Mohinder. These trees and vines, their leaves glossy and green like frog skin, looked the same as all the other ones they had passed; but Hiro had the map, so Mohinder didn't argue the point.

"Tell me again why you can't teleport us to the front door?" Mohinder muttered, wiping the sheen from his brow.

"Too risky," Hiro said between labored breaths. "We don't know exactly where hut is. I could teleport wrong, and we end up in big trouble."

"Ah. Right." The shafts of light piercing through the deep, buzzing canopy were more numerous now, and the foliage began to subside from the corners of Mohinder's eyes. He suspected the clearing was near. "So the map's not specific enough for you, then?"

"No." Hiro pushed up his glasses with an indignant finger. "Molly does not give latitude and longitude, Doctor."

Mohinder opened his mouth to retort, but his voice was swallowed by the shriek that penetrated through the chattering trees. They shared an anxious glance before darting through the brush, Hiro following at Mohinder's heels.

They plowed into the clearing in a moment's time, eyes dazzled by the sudden sunlight. Three men stood in front of a shoddy lean-to on the opposite end of the clearing; struggling and kicking in their arms was a young woman, her black hair flipping like a flag in their faces.

As Hiro drew his sword and ran toward the scene, the woman planted a hard kick in the stomach of one of her captors, and he stumbled into the dirt. One of her hands loose now, she swung at a man but missed; he caught her wrist and twisted it behind her back until she whimpered. Hiro skidded to a halt in front of the girl. His eyes locked with hers and he lifted the sword, but the cock of a gun made him freeze.

The man who had stumbled away now aimed a revolver between Hiro's eyes, finger twitching at the trigger. Hiro squeezed his face shut, but the familiar jolt of the halt of time did not come. The young woman wriggled helplessly, shutting her eyes against the inevitable gunshot.

_Crack_. The man yelped; a whip snapped around his wrist like a leather snake, and the pistol clattered to the ground. Mohinder lashed the whip and its prey back with a flick of his wrist and clipped the man in the jaw with a flying punch, sending him diving into the mud. With a glint of steel, Hiro sliced through the two other men and pulled the girl away toward Mohinder.

"What's going on?" she demanded.

"You're in danger," said Mohinder, hastily coiling the whip at his belt. He snatched the revolver from the ground and checked the chamber. "Hiro, get us out of here."

"I can't! My powers are not working. The Haitian must be—"

"Yeah, I figured that out when three guys came and kidnapped me," the girl snapped, ignoring Hiro. "Who the hell are you?"

"We work for an organization called the Helix Foundation," Mohinder told her, his eyes searching their surroundings. "We protect people being hunted down by the Company. People with supernatural abilities. Hiro, if the Haitian is here, then we need to head toward Plan B."

"Abilities?" the girl breathed, eyes wide now. "You mean … are there other people like me?"

"The sea should be close," Hiro said, looking up from the map and pointing to his left. "Beyond those trees."

"Then that's where we head. Come on, this way—"

But now the trees reverberated with the hollow click of rifles, and before the three of them could move, a dozen pairs of eyes leered at them from behind gun barrels. Mohinder leveled his revolver at the trees, and the girl held her breath.

"Dr. Suresh," uttered a voice. The leaves before them rustled, and two figures emerged from the line of barrels. One was the Haitian, ebony skin vivid against his light sport coat. The other figure was pale, dressed in a crisp, white, linen suit; he doffed his white panama and spun the brim in his fingers.

"Nathan Petrelli," Mohinder said, his gun still steady. "We meet again."

"So we do." Nathan's voice was sleek, velvet, proud; but he never smiled. He nodded to the Haitian, who advanced toward Mohinder until the revolver hovered inches from his chest. Mohinder, very aware of the twelve rifles trained at his forehead and the fierce eyes piercing his own, passed the revolver over to the Haitian's outstretched hand. Hiro slid the sword sheath off his back with a resentful grunt.

The Haitian fell back into the ranks of rifles. "You chose the wrong friends, Dr. Suresh," Nathan said, wiping his brow with a handkerchief. "It'll cost you this time."

"I chose the friends that make the world right," Mohinder said coldly, "but you'll never understand that, will you?" He gestured toward the armed men flanking either side of Nathan. "Too bad they don't know you like I do, Nathan. Tell me, do you treat them like you treated P—"

"Enough," Nathan snapped. He folded the handkerchief into his lapel pocket and put on his hat. "Take the girl," he told his men.

She did not come easily, but two men managed to drag her toward the trees, her legs thrashing at empty air. She looked back toward Mohinder and Hiro before eyeing Nathan viciously.

Nathan sighed. "I hate to end it this way, Doctor, but you give me no choice." He paused, the lines in his face showing more prominently. "Take them dow—"

The girl's heel connected with his face before he could complete the command. Stunned, Nathan fell back, toppling into two of his men; and in the ensuing chaos, as the girl continued kicking wildly and sank her teeth into one of her captor's arms, Mohinder and Hiro bolted. For a split second Mohinder glanced back, just in time to see the girl break away from the scuffle and escape in the other direction and to watch with satisfaction as Nathan stood up, cursing his bloody and mud-caked suit. They careened through the jungle until suddenly the trees gave way to grass and then to sand; just beyond the shore a small plane floated on the waters and a man sat on one of the wings, feet dangling. Shielding their eyes against the glittering waves, the two of them splashed through the shallow surf.

"Start the engines!" Mohinder yelled, waving at the figure on the plane. Ando looked up, alarmed, and scrambled into the cockpit. In moments Mohinder and Hiro reached the plane, pulling themselves into the cabin just as the motor sputtered to life and the hull began coasting across the water. Finally the machine lurched into the sky, spraying pearls of water into the humid air.

"Didn't you learn how to fly one of these a while back?" Mohinder shouted to Hiro over the roaring propellers and howling wind.

"Yes," Hiro answered. "But Ando-san always drives."

"Right," Mohinder said, chuckling despite himself. Holding his fedora in place with a firm hand, he watched as Kauai fell away into the distance.

* * *

Noah Bennet ventured down the mahogany hallways until he reached the room he was looking for. Through the glass in the door he watched Mohinder Suresh motion animatedly to the book in his hand; sidling into the classroom, Noah walked along the back wall and listened as the doctor lectured to a class of unexcited young men and daydreaming young girls.

"… gives us a succinct explanation. Here, read along on page sixty-one: '_Owing to this struggle for life, any variation, however slight and from whatever cause proceeding_'—notice that he mentions that these changes over time are small, miniscule—'_if it be in any degree profitable to an individual of any species, in its infinitely complex relations to other organic beings and to external nature, will tend to the preservation of that individual, and will generally be_ …'"

Mohinder looked up from the book and found his eyes drawn to a blonde girl sitting in the front row. She blinked slowly, and he realized with some discomfort that something was written across her eyelids. He stared, forgetting to look down at the book, and she blinked again.

_Love. You._

Mohinder cleared his throat loudly and found his place again in the passage. "'… _will generally be inherited by its offspring_.' Yes. This is what Darwin calls natural selection, and this we cite as one of the key principles in the study of evolution."

The bell rang, and suddenly the room buzzed with shuffling papers and scraping chairs. "Don't forget, chapters four and five for Monday, please," he called as the students scuttled past. After the last one dropped an apple onto the desk and crossed the threshold, Noah walked up to the doctor, taking the fruit and polishing it on his jacket sleeve.

"We had her, Noah. We had her in our grasp," Mohinder sighed, leaning over his desk.

"What happened?"

"Guess."

Noah made a face. "Petrelli?"

Mohinder stuffed his hands into the pockets of his tweed suit and paced restlessly in front of the chalkboard. "Want to hear about it?"

"Not at all," Noah answered, picking up a book and eyeing it leisurely. "I of course trust that everything you do for the Foundation conforms to the rules and regulations of this noble country. I expect nothing less from you."

Mohinder was only half-listening. "She escaped Petrelli, though," he continued, "thank God … but they'll be after her again in a heartbeat."

"Judging from what we knew about her going into the rescue, I think she'll be able to take care of herself," Noah said. "Not to mention we don't have the funding."

"Noah, I've got to find her," Mohinder insisted. "I've got it all planned out. Look, two thousand dollars, that's all I need and then I'll be golden."

"Another time, Mohinder," Noah said, placing the book back on the desk. "In the meantime, I brought some people to see you."

"People? What kind of people?"

"The FBI."

Mohinder considered him suspiciously. "What do the FBI want with me?"

"Couldn't tell you," said Noah. Mohinder gathered a few rolled-up maps and a briefcase into his arms and followed Noah out into the deserted hallway. "They knew you and Hiro were back before even I did. And they won't say what they want."

"You were only joking about the 'rules and regulations of this noble country' thing, right?" He nearly dropped his briefcase as they approached his office but quickly recovered. "I mean, you don't think they're going to arrest me or anything?"

"We'll see," Noah said, and opened the door to the office.

Mohinder recognized Matt Parkman at once, the detective now dressed in a dark suit and tie. The woman, though, he had never met, but the severe cut of her blonde hair and sharp look in her eyes told him enough. Mohinder tossed his briefcase and papers into a pile in the corner of the office and shook both their hands. Noah followed suit.

"Dr. Suresh," Parkman said as he shook hands with Mohinder, "it's been a long time. Good to see you again."

"Likewise," Mohinder replied. He turned to the woman; she watched him with a calculating gaze. "And you are?"

"Agent Hanson," she said. "I've got to say, Dr. Suresh, I've heard a great deal about you. Professor of biological science, expert on evolution, and—how does one say it?—defender of special individuals."

"That's one way of putting it, I suppose," Mohinder muttered. "Please, make yourselves comfortable."

The four of them sat down around Mohinder's office, closed in on all sides by creaking bookshelves. "You're a man of many talents, that is clear," Hanson continued. "And if I recall correctly, you spent several years working alongside Peter Petrelli?"

Noah glanced at Mohinder but said nothing. "I did," Mohinder said.

"And have you heard anything regarding his present whereabouts?"

"No." Mohinder looked warily at Noah. "Just rumors, mostly. I haven't actually spoken with him for some time. We were friends, but we had a bit of a … falling-out, I'm afraid. Why, is something wrong?"

Parkman leaned forward in his seat. "You understand this is all strictly confidential, Dr. Suresh?"

"I understand."

"Well, as you know," Parkman said, "about four years ago, before I joined the Bureau, Daniel Linderman was murdered in his casino in Las Vegas. We'd known for a while that he was deeply connected to the Company, so when we heard about his death, the FBI quickly raided his private galleries. But before our agents were able to make any progress, the casino was demolished."

"I remember that," Noah remarked. "And Linderman's collection of Mendez pieces—all of them were destroyed?"

"Yes and no," said Hanson. "The gallery is gone, but before the demolition, two pieces were taken out of the gallery. It turns out that the death of Mr. Linderman activated a clause in the late Arthur Petrelli's will. He left both of these particular Mendez pieces to his sons, and just last week, the pieces were delivered. One of them went to Nathan Petrelli."

Mohinder sighed. "And you think Peter has the other."

"Yes. Our spies in the Company tell us that Nathan brought his piece to his mother, and now activity in the Company is focused almost exclusively on deciphering Nathan's half of the inheritance. We hear that Angela Petrelli has Sylar busily painting his own pieces in an attempt to find answers."

"Answers to what?" Mohinder said. "What does Nathan's painting depict?"

Hanson and Parkman exchanged glances, and with a nod from his partner, Parkman reached into his lapel pocket. "One of our spies has managed to acquire a photograph of Nathan's piece of the inheritance. Here." He handed a small photo to Mohinder; he and Noah huddled over the glossy square.

Mohinder easily identified Isaac Mendez's style from the black-and-white photograph. Two figures were present in the painting. On the left stood a dark woman, her hair floating about white, pupil-less eyes lined in black kohl. She pointed a long finger toward the figure on the right, who Mohinder instantly recognized as Nathan Petrelli. Nathan smiled broadly, dressed in his white linen suit and poised halfway up a case of stone steps. To the left of the woman was what looked like a coffin, the lid carved into the shape of a human lying on its back, arms folded across the chest—a sarcophagus, Mohinder guessed. Because of the perspective of the painting, only the foot of the sarcophagus was visible; inscribed in the limestone was a series of symbols, a puzzle of hieroglyphics written in an ancient alphabet.

The image unsettled Mohinder, and for a minute he couldn't understand why; then, all in the same moment, he saw the half-helix symbol wedged among the hieroglyphics and realized that the woman's clothes were nothing more than strips of cloth wrapped around her limbs like a mummy.

"This symbol," Mohinder said, brows furrowed, "is also on the cover of my father's book. Who is this woman?"

"Her name was Asanet," Parkman answered. "That's her name inscribed at the foot of the sarcophagus, along with the symbols for Isis. According to our research, Asanet was well-known in ancient Egypt as a powerful healer; many believed her body acted as a conduit to Isis, the Egyptian goddess of magic and healing. Asanet had an incredibly devout cult of followers, and people from all over Egypt would flock to her and beg for relief from various diseases. But she nurtured a violent temper, and legends exist in which she cursed people for their impotence instead of healing them. Some say that to look her in the eye meant either an end to suffering or instant death."

Hanson took a stack of papers out of her briefcase and slid them over the desk toward Mohinder and Noah. Mohinder glanced through them, noting that "Yamagato Fellowship" was printed at the top of each page.

"Looking deeper into this girl's story," Hanson continued, nodding toward the Yamagato papers, "we discovered that Asanet was most famous for curing a very particular kind of illness. Several accounts mention that people with strange, otherworldly tendencies came to Asanet, seeking to rid themselves of their supernatural abilities."

Noah raised an eyebrow. "You're saying this woman could cure people of their powers?"

"Exactly. And when she died, after being embalmed and placed in that sarcophagus"—Hanson gestured to the photograph—"it's said that her followers left instructions carved into the lid for how to bring her back from the dead, if ever her magic were needed again."

"So why has no one tried to resurrect her, after all this time?" Noah asked. "Surely there are groups out there who believe in that sort of thing and would try to revive her."

"Because no one knows where her followers buried her," Parkman said. "Only that her sarcophagus lies in a tomb somewhere in Egypt, hidden beneath centuries worth of sand and stone. The only known clues to her whereabouts are carved into the sides of her own coffin—a cruel joke, you might say, left by her followers, who knew how dangerous she could be if ever brought back to life."

"So the Company is looking for this alleged healer now?" Mohinder said. "They actually believe they can resurrect her and force her to do their bidding?"

"You've seen Mendez's paintings," Hanson said. "He's rarely, if ever, wrong about these things. And can you imagine the power a group like the Company would have if they could control who keeps their powers and who doesn't? We need to find answers before the Company does, or else everyone will be in danger."

Mohinder placed the photograph on his desk and leaned back in his chair. "I see where you're going with this. You're hoping the second Mendez piece shows the location of the tomb, and to get that piece you need to find Peter Petrelli; and since I was the last to see him before his disappearance, naturally you came to me. But you've not addressed the obvious question: why hasn't the Company already retrieved the painting from Peter?"

"You said it yourself, Dr. Suresh," said Parkman, "he disappeared. Peter Petrelli is a powerful man; if he doesn't want to be found, then no one finds him."

Hanson cleared her throat. "Your organization, however, can track him in ways that the Company cannot."

"If you are referring to Molly Walker, Agent Hanson, then I'm afraid we can't help you."

"She is the greatest advantage you have over the Company," Hanson insisted.

"And I promised Peter Petrelli that I would not go looking for him after he left."

Hanson narrowed her eyes. "I don't think you understand how important it is that we find Peter, Doctor. Parkman is right, the Company doesn't know where Peter disappeared to—but now that they are actively looking for him, it is only a matter of time before he is located and captured."

"And studying the remains of this girl Asanet will help us immensely in our research, Mohinder," Noah added.

Mohinder glared at him. "Oh, so you're on their side now, are you? You expect me to break my promise to Peter?"

"To advance our research toward finding a cure, and to keep Peter safe from the Company? Yes."

Mohinder considered this. Frankly, the prospect of finding answers to the mystery contained within Isaac's paint strokes was enough to excite him. And Peter's safety meant more to him than the FBI would ever know.

"So what is it, exactly, that the FBI wants me to do?"

Parkman smiled. "Once Molly informs you of Peter's whereabouts, go to him and retrieve the second painting. Find the girl's tomb and bring back her sarcophagus to the FBI; in return, we'll fund you on your travels and give you access to the girl's remains for your research." He picked up the photograph from the desk and offered it to Mohinder. "So, do we have a deal, Dr. Suresh?"

Mohinder looked at the photo for a long moment. "We do," he said, and took the photograph with determined fingers.


	2. Chapter 2

**II.**

Mohinder stared at the suitcase lying open on his bed, glossy photo in hand. The lamp on the nightstand cast a warm glow into the dimness and illuminated his thoughtful face. The suitcase lay empty still, but his mind was full—of plans, of ideas, of memories, of Peter.

He looked down at the photograph. It was not of Isaac's painting—that photo lay on the nightstand beside his glasses and a faded passport—but rather of Mohinder and Peter; they stood before a clear sky and the crosshatched spire of the Eiffel Tower, Peter's arm looped around Mohinder's shoulders. Peter, lips pressed playfully onto Mohinder's dark cheek, was trying to hold back a burst of laughter that tugged his mouth into a smile even in the kiss; and Mohinder, helpless in this spontaneous show of fondness, grinned blissfully. He flipped the photo over; on the other side he recognized words scribbled in his own hand, discolored by time but still legible.

_Peter and I, celebrating a successful mission in __la ville magnifique de Paris_

_November 1934_

"Two years," he murmured to himself. It felt more like four. He turned the image over again and gazed at Peter's laughing face, the young man's dark hair falling over his bright, unburdened eyes.

Someone knocked on the front door, jolting Mohinder out of his nostalgia. He tossed the photo into the suitcase and let his smile fade before walking into the front room.

He opened the door and let Noah inside. "Well? Where are we off to?"

"Ireland," Noah replied. "He's on the outskirts of a small town in the countryside; I've got the specifics with me. Molly says hello and expects a souvenir, preferably a leprechaun or two."

Mohinder grinned. "I didn't realize fifteen-year-olds still believed in that sort of thing, but I'll do my best. Is Hiro coming along?"

"No, he's on another job. I'm coming with you."

Mohinder looked up in surprise. "You don't generally do fieldwork, Noah."

"I do today. I have connections in Egypt that might prove beneficial. My family lives in Cairo; we can stay with them once we get there."

"I thought your family was in Spain?"

"Last year they were. Claire's still in danger from the Company, so I keep them moving as often as possible. I have old ties with a curator at the Egyptian Museum there; he's been keeping an eye on them for me." Noah reached for the doorknob. "Our plane leaves tomorrow morning for Ireland. I'll pick you up at seven?"

Mohinder nodded. Noah opened the door to leave, but hesitated for a moment. "Molly also says not to let Peter cloud your head," he added quietly, "and I agree with her. I know you're emotionally involved in this case, Mohinder, but we have to make deciphering this mystery our top priority."

"I am fully aware of my priorities, thank you," Mohinder muttered darkly. "Peter and I ended things a long time ago, you know that."

"Then I'll see you tomorrow," said Noah. They exchanged goodbyes, and once Noah closed the door behind him, Mohinder walked back to the bedroom. With one last look at the picture from Paris, he folded it into a set of clothes and set them in the suitcase, followed by his whip and his pistol. He remembered a crisp November weekend in the City of Light and finished packing, his face glowing warmly in the lamplight.

* * *

Peter Petrelli leaned over a heavy wooden table, hands folded among the many overturned shot glasses. His cheeks burned with whiskey and his temples throbbed with hot blood, but he still felt a hell of a lot better than Liam Milligan looked. Liam was a big man, round and plump, his rosy face greasy with sweat. Despite his size, Liam didn't know how to hold his liquor. Peter learned that about him three shots ago; he expected this next round would be the clincher.

Liam managed to slosh down a shot, the liquor dribbling from the corners of his mouth, and the modest crowd huddled around the table cheered. Peter picked up the only full glass left on the table and eyed it bemusedly, watching as his vision doubled for a moment. He pressed the glass to his lips and slowly gained momentum, finally tipping his head back and letting the liquid burn down his throat. He closed his eyes against the teetering pub for a minute; the crowd started chattering, and at the sound of coins being exchanged over his head Peter opened his eyes.

"Wait," Peter blurted. The crowd hushed, watching; Peter turned the glass over and plopped it onto the table, and many of the onlookers shouted their approval. The waiter brought another round.

Liam didn't look good. He groped for a glass with thick fingers, tipping it back into his throat and grinning stupidly. For a moment the crowd watched with bated breath as Liam straightened in his chair, seemingly unaffected by the liquor; then he toppled unceremoniously to the floor, knocking a few patrons over in the process. The crowd roared, and Peter smiled as money began to pile up in front of him.

"Alright, everybody, game's over," he called as he stood up and gathered the empty glasses onto a tray. "Time to go. Danny, make sure Liam gets home okay, will you?"

Peter counted through the heap of Saorstát pounds until everyone had left and the place buzzed with quiet. He stuffed the coins into a pocket and looked up; there on the back wall loomed a tall shadow, marked by the outline of a fedora perched atop loose curls. He wondered if this was the whiskey's doing and hazily spun around.

"Hello, Peter."

Mohinder stood just beyond the threshold and met Peter's bewildered stare. Peter stuffed one hand into a pocket and rubbed the back of his head with the other; a nervous laugh broke across his face and pulled his mouth into a crooked smile.

"Mohinder Suresh," he said, strolling toward the man in the doorway. "Never thought I'd see you come walking back through my door. I seem to remember telling you not to ever go looking for me."

"I had to, Peter. You're in danger."

Peter sighed; the half smile that had wrinkled his eyes now fell away as though never there. "I left your world a long time ago, Mohinder. I can take care of myself, whatever it is."

He sidled into a bar stool, reaching behind the counter and pulling out a half-empty bottle of whiskey. Mohinder watched his heavy face and frowned. The young man had changed; he was quieter now, the bright flicker in his eyes replaced by burdens that had only just begun to plague him before he left Mohinder's arms years ago. He looked lost, empty, old, a shadow of the man that spent a weekend in Paris with Mohinder. He was alone.

Mohinder sat on the barstool beside Peter; even before Peter screwed off the cap of the bottle, Mohinder could already smell whiskey on his breath. "Did you receive a painting lately, sometime in the last week? A piece by Isaac Mendez?"

Peter took a swig of the liquor, avoiding Mohinder's eyes. "So you didn't come for me after all."

"I came for you _and_ the painting, Peter. Do you have it?"

Peter turned; thick dark hair fell across his weary eyes and cast deep shadows onto his features. "A painting, no." He got up from the stool and crossed to the other side of the room, picked up something from a table by the fireplace, and brought it back to Mohinder. "But this came in the mail for me a couple days ago."

Mohinder looked up at Peter, unable to hide the eagerness in his face. He held a letter-sized leaf of paper in his fingers, the edges tattered and stained with coffee; and drawn on the paper was a faded image, sketched in pencil and signed in the bottom corner by Isaac Mendez.

"What do you make of it?" Peter asked quietly, inclining his head toward the sketch.

The image depicted Asanet's sarcophagus, distinguishable by its lid carved like a woman's sleeping body. The coffin was at the center of the picture, one of its long sides facing the viewer instead of the foot of it, as in Nathan's painting. Flanking the sarcophagus on either side were two flickering torches mounted on a wall of limestone blocks; snake illustrations slithered between the two torches, and hieroglyphics stretched across the visible side of the coffin.

Mohinder shuddered visibly at the snakes, then traced a finger over the hieroglyphs. "More symbols to translate, then," he murmured.

"Are you going to tell me what in the world this drawing means?"

Mohinder barely heard him as he gazed intently at the sketch. "You said you received this a few days ago? From whom?"

"I don't know. It came in a big envelope with my name and address written on it, but I didn't see any return address. I was going to pitch it, but I noticed Isaac's signature and figured it was sent to me for a reason. I don't know why, though." He hoisted himself up onto the barstool again and leaned in toward Mohinder. "But you do, don't you? What's going on? How did you know I had something of Isaac's?"

Peter's voice had grown intense and earnest in these last few moments, just like it used to do when he and Mohinder would come across a new clue during one of their missions, and Mohinder realized suddenly how much he had missed that honest enthusiasm reflected in warm, dark eyes. He rummaged around in his lapel pocket and handed the photograph of the other Mendez piece to Peter, watching Peter's face as he took the image in his fingers.

"This is Nathan," he said at once. Something like guilt flickered across his features.

"Yes."

Silence settled in as Peter pored over the painting. Then, "Who is this girl?"

"Her name is Asanet," Mohinder said, and he recounted the legends the FBI had told him.

"And who owns this other painting?" Peter said, eyeing Mohinder apprehensively.

Mohinder hesitated. "Your brother."

Peter leaned back in the stool in silence. He took another long draught of whiskey and looked down again at the photograph. The enthusiasm fizzled away, and his face was weary again.

Mohinder couldn't stand the quiet any longer. He repeated to Peter everything the FBI had said about the will and the two Mendez pieces. Peter remained silent, his face unreadable.

"Peter, do you think you could try creating your own paintings? It might help us piece together more of this puzzle, get us ahead of the Company."

"I can't," Peter said blankly.

Mohinder frowned. "What do you mean, you can't? If you need brushes, or pencils, or anything like that, I'm sure we can find supplies close by."

"No, I mean, I can't." Peter swallowed. "I can't paint the future. Or read minds, or turn invisible, or any of that. Haven't been able to for a couple of months now." He smiled weakly. "It's just everything, you know? Everything piled up. You know how it is."

As Peter turned away to drink again from the bottle of liquor, Mohinder remembered Hiro telling him once how losing Charlie had rendered him powerless for some time; and here sat Peter Petrelli, shoulders slumped over a dwindling bottle, suffering quietly through a life estranged from his brother and devoid of the love and companionship that once gave him strength. Mohinder considered him, this broken, tired man sitting beside him, and remembered regretfully the day two years ago he had let Peter walk away.

He reached his hand across the counter and placed it quietly over Peter's.

Peter smiled bitterly. "That just makes it worse, you know. Just you being here makes it worse. When you came through my door just now I thought for a fleeting instant that everything was right again, that Nathan had never fallen for Mom's apologies or shifted over to the other side or stared at you and me with that reproachful look in his eye, that you had really come back for me, that we were still good and happy and _us_. But then two years passed by all over again and I remembered in a rush all I'd left behind, and … well." He slid his hand out from underneath Mohinder's. "I remembered, that's all."

They sat in silence for a long time. Peter took another drink, draining the bottle, but Mohinder remained motionless in his seat.

"I never meant to hurt you, Peter."

"You did, though."

"And I'm sorry."

"So that makes everything better, does it?"

"I'm sorry for what I said to you," Mohinder said darkly, his voice growing louder, "but _you_ walked out on _me_, not the other way around."

"And you let me."

"You asked me not to follow you. Haven't we gone over this?"

"Yeah, we have," Peter snapped, and he walked away from the counter, picking up the tray of empty shot glasses he had left on the wooden table.

"I didn't come here to fight with you," Mohinder muttered as Peter moved behind the counter with the tray. "So can I take the sketch with me or not?"

"Come back tomorrow and I'll let you know," Peter said.

Mohinder glared at him. "Why?"

"Because I said so, that's why. It's my place and it's my sketch. So come back tomorrow."

Mohinder eyed him exasperatedly, but said nothing. He took one last look at the sketch and slapped it down onto the counter, sliding off the chair. Peter watched as he opened the door and walked out into the night.

"See you tomorrow, Mohinder Suresh," Peter said quietly, picking up the sketch. He turned it over; on the back was another drawing, one that Mohinder hadn't noticed in his eagerness to devour the first. In the upper left corner of this side of the paper was a smattering of doodles in red pencil of the half-helix that Peter had first seen on Chandra Suresh's book. In the center of the page, Nathan was curled in a fetal position upon those same stone steps from the painting, his lifeless head leaning against a wall and blood trickling from his eyes and mouth. The sarcophagus loomed over his dead body, ornamented with even more hieroglyphs.

Peter's gaze lingered on the drawing for a moment; then he flipped it over again and placed the sketch Nathan-side down on the counter. Shaking his head and trying to rid himself of that image of his dead brother that had plagued him for days, Peter busied himself cleaning tables until a noise at the front door interrupted his thoughts.

"Bar's closed," Peter called as the door opened. When the footsteps continued, he looked up and stiffened.

Sylar loomed in the shadowy doorway, flanked by three armed men.

"We're not thirsty," Sylar rumbled. He took a few steps into the room, the tails of his oil-black trench coat skimming the floor.

Peter slowly placed his rag on the wooden table, his eyes never leaving Sylar's face. The hairs on the back of his neck tingled as he straightened up and plastered the most convincing look of confidence on his face that he could muster. "What do you want, Sylar?"

"Ah, not even a hello for an old friend?" Sylar said, a derisive grin coiling his lips. "I expected more from you. The truth is, Peter, you know exactly what I'm looking for; and I assume our mutual friend has already come asking for it. Surely he told you there would be other interested parties?"

"Must've slipped his mind," Peter muttered. On an impulse he tried taking the rag back into his hand without touching it; when nothing happened, his stomach leapt into his throat. He saw no feasible way out of this; he hadn't needed to defend himself for a long time, and now he was powerless. He wished he hadn't told Mohinder to leave.

"The man is nefarious," Sylar continued, inching forward. "I hope for your sake he has not acquired the painting."

"I'm sure you do. Strange company you have these days," Peter added, inclining his head toward the armed men. "Losing confidence in your own abilities?"

Sylar chuckled. "No, no; she's just very careful, that mother of yours, always looking out for her own kind. I appreciate the gesture, really, but you and I both know that my friends here are just for show. Now, tell me—do you still have the painting?"

"No. But I know where it is. I'll take you to it."

But Sylar shook his head and sighed, and suddenly he whipped his hand forward. Peter choked, gagged, his throat squeezing shut by its own accord, and he clawed at his neck as his feet lifted off the floor.

"You are many things, Peter Petrelli," Sylar said, "but a good liar isn't one of them. Search the place," he snapped to the three men, and without hesitation they spread out and began overturning everything in their path. As one man approached the counter, Peter groped with his mind for any inkling of power left in him. Nothing. He gasped helplessly for air.

"Sir!"

To Peter's horror, one of the men brought the sketch to Sylar. With his free hand Sylar took it, eyes gleaming.

"This is it," he breathed, soaking up the image of the lone sarcophagus. He turned to Peter, face contorted in murderous glee, squeezing his fingers over the empty air—

A gunshot exploded, and Sylar twisted in pain, shouting out and collapsing as a bullet pierced through his back. Peter fell to the floor, coughing, and looked up. Mohinder darted across the threshold, smoking gun in hand, and suddenly the stale air ruptured in a cacophony of gunshots as the three men opened fire. Peter snatched up the sketch from the ground where Sylar had dropped it and crumpled it into a pocket before rolling out of the way of the battle raging above him.

Mohinder ducked behind a half-wall near the fireplace, flattening his back against the cold stone. One of the thugs kicked over a table, shattering bottles of booze over the floor, and crouched behind it; another man took cover by the counter, and the third fired a submachine gun from a corner across the room. With a swift twist around the half-wall, Mohinder shot at the third man and grazed the logs in the fireplace instead, sending two of them tumbling over the liquor-soaked floor. Fire licked up the overturned table and leapt onto the first thug's arm, and he thrashed about as the flames lashed across his back. From the darkness Peter watched as the flaming man lurched forward, his back to Peter. Mohinder swerved and shot the man between the eyes, and Peter yelped as the thug fell backward in a heap of fiery limbs. He crawled away from the charred body and heaved himself over the counter, ears bursting as the submachine gun roared.

Mohinder took cover to reload and then fired again at the thug across the room, this time piercing flesh and hearing the submachine gun clatter to the floor. He rolled into the open just as a bullet nearly clipped his shoulder and sent two of his own into the air. The man he had shot bled from his arm but lumbered toward Mohinder, who socked the bear of a man in the jaw before getting pummeled in the face himself. The man tackled Mohinder before he could retaliate, and his pistol skidded out of reach. They tumbled across the room, nearly rolling into the rapidly spreading flames; seeing this, the man at the counter stood up from his cover. In a flash Peter sprung up from behind and bashed him over the head with a bottle of rum, sending the man to the floor.

By now Mohinder and the thug were standing again, struggling with one another amidst the stifling flames. The huge man threw Mohinder up against the counter and pinned him in the pool of booze that had gathered on the surface. Suddenly a fiery beam collapsed from the ceiling and landed on the other side of the counter, igniting the liquor in a rope of flames that sped toward Mohinder's face.

"Whiskey," Mohinder gasped to Peter, who had resumed his crouching position behind the counter.

"Should you really be drinking at a time like this?" Peter quipped, but he thrust a whiskey bottle into Mohinder's hand anyway. Mohinder gave him a withering look before smashing the bottle over the thug's head, lurching off the counter just in time to escape the flames that swept by.

Mohinder cracked a chair over the thug's back, sending him down, and he spun around. The man Peter had knocked out was alive again, aiming a pistol straight at Mohinder's chest. Mohinder caught his breath and flinched as the gun roared. Silence. In surprise he looked from his uninjured chest to the man, whose mouth now glistened with blood. The thug teetered and fell, revealing Peter poised behind him with the submachine gun still cocked and ready.

"Where's Sylar?" Mohinder shouted over the crackling flames as Peter emerged from behind the counter. They both looked around, shielding their eyes against the blaze and the smoke. Sylar was nowhere to be seen.

"He must've escaped," Peter said, breathing hard. "Dammit, Mohinder, you burned down my place!"

"And you said you could take care of yourself!"

Peter glared at him. "I made good money tonight too, you know, and now it's gone along with all the rest of my stuff—"

Another beam dropped from the ceiling, and Mohinder yanked Peter toward him as the embers scattered. "Let's get out of here," he said, and dragged Peter by the hand out into the howling night wind. "Does Sylar have the sketch?"

Peter pulled the wrinkled sketch out of his pocket; the edges were a little crispy, but the images were still intact. "He saw it, though," he called over the wind. "But only this side."

"What, there's something on the back, too?" Peter nodded, and Mohinder sighed. "Why didn't you tell me? If I had left without the sketch and didn't come back—"

Peter thrust the image of Nathan toward Mohinder's face. "He's dead in this picture," Peter said, the wind flipping his hair over his eyes. The words spilled out of his throat like a secret he couldn't keep any longer. "It's been two years since I've spoken a word to him, but I can't just … he's my _brother_, Mohinder. And I've been hiding because of him, and because of …" He stopped, ears turning red. "I'm coming with you," Peter blurted. "You burned down my place, I've got no reason to stay."

Mohinder hesitated. "Alright then," he shouted over the din. "Noah's waiting for us, let's go."

They hurried down the grassy slope, the pub smoldering behind them.

* * *

"So what do we do now?" Peter said.

He retired from pacing around the hotel room and slid onto the edge of the bed next to Mohinder. The two of them looked to Noah, who sat on the second bed across from them, holding both the photograph and the sketch in his hands.

"Well," Mohinder began, "Sylar's seen the hieroglyphs; I have no doubt that the Company's already translated them and is looking for the sarcophagus. So we go to Egypt and find Asanet before the Company does."

"Well, I don't know about you two, but I can't read Ancient Egyptian," Peter remarked.

"I know someone who can," Noah said. "Once we get to Cairo and check in with my family, I'll contact him."

"The curator you mentioned, I assume," said Mohinder, and Noah nodded. Mohinder shook his head in disbelief. "Honestly, though, that's highly convenient, isn't it? That your family is living in the same country as this girl that everyone's trying to find?"

"And it was pretty convenient that I worked for Charles Deveaux, whose daughter knew the painter that led me to Claire in Texas, and that Claire also happened to be my niece," Peter said. "Mohinder, I would've hoped by now that you realized how connected we all are in this. None of this is based on convenience or coincidence; it's our destiny."

Mohinder smiled at Peter. "Destiny or not, I'm still skeptical. But it's settled, then."

"I'll book the flight to Cairo for tomorrow morning," Noah said. "See you two bright and early." He left the room, leaving Mohinder and Peter alone.

"I miss this," Peter sighed, sitting on his hands.

_I miss you_, Mohinder said to himself, and remembered with relief that Peter couldn't hear his thoughts.


	3. Chapter 3

**III.**

When Noah knocked on the Bennets' door, Claire was the one to answer it.

She stared at Mohinder, Peter, and her father for a long moment before the grin stretched across her whole face, eyes beaming. "Dad!" she squealed, flying into his outstretched arms, her gold ponytail bouncing.

"Hey, Clairebear," Noah chuckled into her shoulder.

"Goodness, Claire, you've gotten so old," Peter said, lips tugged into a crooked grin. "What are you, thirty, now?"

Claire pulled away from her father and gave Peter a look, arms akimbo. "Ha ha, very funny. If you hadn't stopped answering my _letters_," she said, socking him playfully in the arm, "you'd know I turned twenty last month. Too good for me now, are you?"

"Just lazy," Peter said, and swept her up into an embrace. "Forgive me?"

"We'll see," she teased. "Mohinder," she added, turning to him now, "good to see you, too."

"Likewise." They exchanged warm smiles. "Is your mom home?"

"Yeah, she and Lyle are inside … Dad," she added slowly, "why are you all here? Is something wrong?" The smile fell from her face, and concern flickered behind her eyes. "It's because Nathan's here in Cairo, isn't it?"

Peter felt his stomach drop as all eyes turned to him. "We didn't know that he was," he said, voice hollow.

"If Nathan's here," Mohinder said, "then so is the Company. Claire, you've got to tell us everything you know."

"Let's get inside first," Noah suggested, and Claire led them into the house.

They stepped into the breezy home, bleach-white walls cast in shadow by the early morning sun. "They're out on the verandah," Claire said, and she guided her guests through an open archway onto a balcony overlooking the city's white and brown housetops. Sandra and Lyle stood up from their seats around the table as the group walked in, and Mr. Muggles yipped at Noah's heels.

"Noah!" Sandra gasped. She kissed her husband, and Lyle crossed the balcony to hug his father. "What are you all doing here? Please, all of you, make yourselves at home, I'll pour us some lemonade. Lyle, honey, help me in the kitchen."

Lyle rolled his eyes at his sister and followed Sandra reluctantly into the house, Mr. Muggles scurrying behind them; Claire and the three men pulled up chairs around the table.

"Tell me what you know about my brother, Claire," Peter said, leaning forward.

She took a breath. "Well, I went down into the bazaar yesterday to get groceries, and I just … saw him there. It was the strangest thing—I had to do a double-take to make sure I wasn't seeing things. I thought at first that he was alone, but later in the day I heard talk of a dig getting underway an hour or so north of the city, headed by some Americans. You don't see a lot of foreigners around here; I didn't really know what to make of it at the time." She hesitated. "You told me Nathan's been working for the Company for a few years now, right?" she asked her father.

"Yes. He started doing fieldwork just a couple months ago."

Claire glanced sideways at Peter before continuing, wondering if such a change in events was the reason behind the sudden lack of letters from her uncle. "Then I'm glad I didn't talk to him. Well, if you guys didn't know that Nathan was here, then why did you come to Cairo?"

Peter looked to Mohinder, who took out the photograph and sketch and set them on the table. Claire leaned over them, frowning. "We're looking for the tomb of the woman in this picture," Mohinder explained, pointing to the photograph. "She was supposedly able to strip people of their abilities, but was known for her violent outbursts as well. The Company wants to find her, and we have reason to believe that she's buried here, in Egypt. It's likely that Sylar is in the area as well."

Claire stiffened at the name. She looked from the image of the dead Nathan to Peter, who was currently staring intently at his hands.

Sandra and Lyle emerged through the archway, carrying a tray of lemonade and a bowl of dates. As they placed the food on the table, Mr. Muggles darted to Peter's side and barked shrilly, hopping on his hind legs.

"Well, someone remembers you," Noah chuckled as Peter scooped up the ball of fluff. Claire giggled when the dog licked Peter's cheek, making him grimace. Mohinder caught Peter's eye and couldn't help but grin as Peter struggled to pull the tiny animal away from his wet, shiny face.

"So, someone fill me in on what you all are doing here," Sandra said, and Claire recounted what Mohinder had told her. "Well, you're of course welcome to stay here while you're in town," Sandra remarked. "Looks like Mr. Muggles has already made you feel right at home, Peter."

"And I thought I was his favorite," said Noah dryly.

Sandra wrapped her arms around Noah's neck. "Well, Mr. Muggles just doesn't have good taste in men, dear," she said, kissing his cheek.

"I resent that," Peter and Mohinder said at the same time.

Their faces both burned red in the awkward silence that followed. Claire suppressed a giggle; Sandra cleared her throat. "Well, I think the three of you should take Mr. Muggles out for a stroll in the bazaar, take a look around. That sounds like fun, doesn't it?"

"I think I'll stay here, honey," Noah said, taking a sip of his lemonade and leaning back in his chair.

"I'll go," Claire blurted, and she leapt up from her chair. "Come on, you two."

She led them down into the city streets, flanked on either side by Peter and Mohinder. Peter held Mr. Muggles in one arm and wrapped the other around Claire as they strolled into the noisy marketplace.

"You know what?" Claire said. "I actually have some errands to do. Why don't you two … hang out for a bit, meet me at the house in couple of hours? You know your way back, right?"

She slid out from underneath Peter's arm and gave the two of them a knowing grin before skipping off down a side street. Peter and Mohinder exchanged glances, and Mr. Muggles yipped.

"She's something, isn't she?" Peter said, shaking his head. "Ugh, this _dog_," he groaned as the Pomeranian began licking his face again. Mohinder laughed.

"I'm surprised at you, Peter, talking that way about our baby," Mohinder teased. "He's got your looks, you know."

"And _your_ brains."

"I noticed that. He's a smart little thing, that dog."

Peter grinned, but suddenly Mr. Muggles wriggled out of his grasp and jumped to the ground, darting along an alleyway. "Hey! Hey, come back!"

"He'll be alright," Mohinder said as Peter looked back anxiously. "He probably just went after Claire. Come on, he'll be fine," Mohinder added when Peter didn't budge. "The little guy knows his way around. He's got my brains, you said it yourself." Peter loosened a bit, and Mohinder led him down between the whitewashed houses.

Mr. Muggles, however, did not go after Claire; the dog scurried into an alley and was scooped up by an Arab man with an eye patch, who scratched the fur ball behind the ears as he barked eagerly in Peter and Mohinder's direction. Two white-suited Americans dropped into the shadows and approached the Arab, and in stilted English the Arab pointed out Peter and Mohinder's whereabouts to the American men.

Peter and Mohinder browsed the street vendors a few blocks away, Mohinder balancing three bags of bread and produce in his hands. "So, I didn't mention it before," Peter said, "but I noticed how you squirmed a little when you saw the snakes in that sketch."

Mohinder's cheeks flushed. "I did not squirm."

Peter grinned. They passed by a horse and cart as Peter took a handful of dates from one of Mohinder's bags, popping them into his mouth. "Liar, I saw you. You didn't think I noticed, but I did. Admit it."

Mohinder mumbled something under his breath.

"What?"

"I said," Mohinder grumbled, sulking, "they _slither_. That's not natural, you know. Beyond a few rare varieties of amphibians and reptiles, no other species wriggle around on the ground like that. I don't see how you can think that's _not_ disturbing."

"Mohinder Suresh," Peter laughed, "you have not changed one bit since the day I …" He trailed off, the laugh fading away.

They stopped in front of a rug vendor and browsed through it, Peter's fingers glancing over the scarlet weaves. "You know, Mohinder," he began in a quiet voice, "I've been thinking these last few days—"

He didn't have a chance to finish the thought, for when he looked up Mohinder's eyes were wide with alarm, staring as half a dozen turbaned men brandishing scimitars raced in their direction. "Duck!" Mohinder yelled as he dropped the bags of produce, and Peter crouched down just in time for an Arab to swipe at Mohinder.

Mohinder sucked in his stomach, barely avoiding the blade as it skimmed his shirttail. He elbowed the swordsman in the face, slamming him into the display of rugs, and spun out of the way before another sword sliced the air. Peter struggled to his feet as Mohinder dodged the swirling scimitar. As Mohinder sidestepped the blade, it lunged into the side of another turbaned man behind him.

Mohinder yanked Peter away from an Arab and grabbed him by the shoulders. "Get out of here, Peter!" he shouted before pushing Peter down and punching the man over Peter's shoulder.

"I'm not leaving you," Peter spat, rising. He dodged an Arab's swing and tumbled back into the rug vendor, knocking the red-stitched carpets into the dirt. Watching Mohinder ram his knee into a man, Peter was suddenly struck by an idea. "Mohinder, kiss me."

Mohinder froze in mid-punch. "What?"

"Kiss me."

Mohinder finished the punch and tugged the bullwhip from his belt. He snapped the whip at the growing hoard of turbaned men, and they scattered, hovering just beyond the whip's reach. "I don't think now's the best time to—"

"Dammit, Mohinder, just shut up and kiss me already!" Peter said, and in one swift movement he cupped Mohinder's face in his hands and pressed his lips against Mohinder's. The whip loosened from Mohinder's grip; their lips opened, Mohinder's hand reaching up into Peter's thick hair, and for the first time in years Peter's heart swelled and floated into his throat, his lungs billowing with Mohinder's warm breath. His fingers trailed into Mohinder's curls and slid underneath the fedora's crown, tightening around black locks wet with Egyptian sun. Beneath the noise of the bazaar he sensed Mohinder's thoughts bubbling up, scattered and muffled except for Peter's name flickering above the static.

Peter pulled away, letting Mohinder's scent linger in his nose. A swordsman lunged forward; Peter clenched his fist and swung, connecting with the Arab's jaw and sending him spiraling into the air like a screw. With a deep breath he waved his hand toward the remaining swordsmen, and they slammed into the white walls and vendors behind them.

"Well then," Peter panted, grinning at a dazed Mohinder, "that seemed to work pretty well."

Mohinder waited for his heart to stop thumping in his ears before speaking. "Here come more," he said after collecting himself, pointing toward the swordsmen elbowing through the crowd that had formed around the fight. Peter thrust his hand into the air again—nothing. He cursed under his breath.

"Oh, for crying out loud—"

"It wouldn't have killed you, back in the day," Mohinder said as he coiled up the whip, "to learn to defend yourself with_out_ powers. Otherwise, you're not particularly useful in a fight—"

He accented the last word with a kick, catching an Arab in the gut. Peter fell back and sighed as his heart sagged back into his chest.

"Thanks," he mumbled, "that makes me feel ten times better." He leapt to the side as an Arab swiped at him, losing his balance and collapsing into the cart of hay hitched to the back of a horse. The horse whinnied, eyes rolling, and galloped down the cobblestone street. Peter toppled headfirst into the hay, scrambling to find footing as the horse dragged him through the maze of houses. Finally he managed to roll out onto the cobblestones, spitting up straw as the cart lurched to a stop.

He struggled to his feet, picking hay out of his hair, and looked around. The horse had taken him to the edge of the bazaar, but he could still see Mohinder's back while the man with the fedora warded off a circle of swordsmen. Peter started toward the fight, but before he could take more than a few steps a turbaned man jumped into his path.

Peter snatched a frying pan from a vendor on his right. In reply, the Arab brandished a dagger, flashing yellow, rotted teeth.

"Right," Peter said, and ran the other way down the street. When the Arab followed Peter into an empty doorway, Peter hurled the frying pan over his skull. Stepping over the unconscious body, he darted past a heap of large rattan baskets before skidding to a halt at the sight of two white-suited Americans and their lackeys closing in from the left and an eye-patched Arab advancing from the right. Peter panicked, searched frantically for somewhere to hide, and climbed inside one of the trash-can-sized baskets, sliding the top over his head.

The American men and the Arab carrying Mr. Muggles converged near the baskets and kept running, until Mr. Muggles wriggled out of the man's grasp and hopped onto Peter's basket, yapping like mad. Peter lifted the lid an inch or two, shushing the dog and tipping the lid in hopes that the Pomeranian would topple off. But at the sound of Mr. Muggles' high-pitched yips, the rabble of men stopped and turned, staring straight into Peter's wide eyes.

Mohinder sprinted down the street and hoisted himself onto the side of the horse's cart. "Peter?" he cried, voice cracking, but the cart was empty except for the disheveled mounds of straw. He dropped to the ground and raced back into the thick of the bazaar, frenzied eyes searching over a sea of turbaned heads for a glimpse of Peter's face.

Suddenly the crowds parted, revealing a man a few feet away draped all in black except for a red sash strung around his waist. The man lifted his scimitar and met Mohinder's searching gaze with cold, deadly eyes.

The swordsman bandied his weapon between his hands, cackling, and the blade caught a glint of sunlight as he spun it deftly across the air. Mohinder groaned, wiping the sweat from his forehead with a dirty shirtsleeve. As the swordsman snaked the blade into figure-eights, Mohinder pulled the gun from his holster, aimed, and shot him in the chest, not bothering to watch as the black-robed man collapsed in a swirl of dust and cheers from the onlookers.

"Help me, Mohinder!" called a distant voice, and Mohinder's head snapped toward it: a large rattan basket bounced above the crowd of heads, zigzagging out of the bazaar and disappearing into an alleyway. Mohinder pushed his way through the masses and barreled over the cobblestones, careening down the alleyway as Peter's aggravated voice echoed through the maze of streets.

"Mohinder! MOHINDER! Get me the hell out of here, dammit!_ Mohinderrrrrrr!_"

Mohinder tore through the side streets, bolting wildly around corners. Finally he screeched to a stop, finding himself staring once again at the bustling bazaar.

He whimpered. The marketplace swarmed with dozens of identical baskets, perched atop dozens of identical shoulders.

Mohinder ran forward and shoved a basket off a man's back; a heap of clothes tumbled out, so he knocked over another one—another—another—another—and as he weaved through the square, toppling baskets upon baskets to no avail, amid the angry shouts and indignant cries a familiar voice broke through the din.

"_MOHINDER SURESH!_"

"Peter!" Mohinder shouted, and he dashed across the plaza, following the basket down another alley. Suddenly the alleyway opened up into a wider road, and he recoiled as a submachine gun spattered the dirt as his feet. He ducked behind a wall, gasping for air. As he reloaded his pistol, Peter's basket was heaved into the back of a truck parked in the wide road. The white-suited Americans leaned out the cab of the truck, yelling for the Arabs to get inside. The engine growled; the turbaned man brandishing the submachine gun took the Americans' position leaning out of the cab, and as the truck rumbled forward, Mohinder sprung out and shot the man with the gun straight in the chest.

The truck rattled by, but Mohinder shot again, this time nailing the driver in the head. The driver sagged onto the steering wheel, his lifeless foot pressed firmly on the gas; in a flash the truck veered off onto a hill of dirt, tipping sideways and, as Mohinder sprinted for cover, crashing into the side of a house. Almost instantly the canvassed truck bed erupted into a ball of swelling flames and sparks, the force of the explosion slamming Mohinder face-first into a wall.

Mohinder spun around. His cheeks burned in the fierce heat emanating from the smoldering truck. He stood frozen, then darted forward, half-intending to lunge into the fire; but his legs gave out after only a few paces. Numbly he stared, mouth hanging open, the dancing flames reflecting in his incredulous eyes. His revolver dropped out of deadened fingers. The blood throbbed thunderously in his ears until he could hear nothing else.

"Peter," he whispered. The name fell off his tongue like sand.

_Peter_.

* * *

Claire paused in front of the restaurant, panting. A man sat hunched over a table outside, his shirt matted against his back and dark with perspiration and his fedora tipped low on his head. Mr. Muggles lay his head in his paws and was sprawled across the table; at the sight of Claire his ears perked up, and she scooped the dog into her arms. The man barely stirred.

Claire stared at his back. "Mohinder," she said, quiet but anxious, "where's Peter?"

The muscles flexed beneath his shirt as he drank from the shot glass on the table. Claire wanted to slide into the chair across from him, to see his face, but something in the stiffness of Mohinder's body kept her where she was.

"I heard what sounded like an explosion," she continued, gripping Mr. Muggles' collar with white knuckles, "and you two hadn't come back yet, so I was afraid that something bad had—"

"Peter's dead, Claire," Mohinder murmured. "He was in the back of a truck that went up in flames."

Silence.

"He can't be dead. He can heal."

"No, he can't." He stood up slowly, heavily, and faced Claire; she searched his bleary face with eyes blurred by tears. "In Ireland, Peter told me that his powers hadn't been working for months. He was depressed. Because of his brother, because of me."

"I shouldn't have left you two in the bazaar," Claire sniffled, voice trembling.

"No, don't," Mohinder said grimly. "There's no use in either of us blaming ourselves. I dealt with losing him once," he added softly, more to himself than to Claire, "I can deal with it again."

The sun hung low in the sky, its orange light skimming over the table and dusting the surrounding buildings in warm glows and gray shadows. Mohinder placed his hand on Claire's back and led her down the narrow street, keeping his eyes sharp for any disturbances. Claire cried quietly at his side, her fingers entwined deep in Mr. Muggles' fur, and their thin, drawn shadows extended out into the hushed darkness behind them.

* * *

The dates Lyle had just washed and dumped into a bowl lay in a shaft of blue moonlight on the countertop. Muffled chatter from the other room seeped into the quiet kitchen, but the Arab with an eye patch paid no mind to the noises. He crept from the balcony into the kitchen and hovered above the dates, tipping a red vial over the fruit. Once the dates glistened with the liquid, he tiptoed back outside, closing the door soundlessly behind him, and disappeared into the shadows.

Sandra strolled into the kitchen and picked up the bowl of dates along with a pitcher of iced tea. She carried them back into the living room, where her family, Mohinder, and the museum curator had gathered around the coffee table.

"I'm not sure I understand," Claire was saying, leaning forward on the edge of the couch. "It's taken us hours to translate these hieroglyphics, but Sylar glanced at the sketch once and could duplicate them perfectly for the Company?"

"He has photographic memory," Mohinder said, walking to the coffee table. He plucked a wet date out of the bowl and rolled it in his hand. "One look was all he needed, and the Company's translators must have taken it from there."

"Then it's a good thing he only saw one side of that sketch."

"Well, we'll see how useful the second side is," Noah said, filling his glass with iced tea. "How's it coming, Fahim?"

The curator, stuffed into the corner of the room, looked up from the sketch and the huge book in his lap. "I've just finished the last symbol," he said in a thick accent, and beckoned to them. Mohinder put on his glasses and rushed with Noah to the curator's side; Claire, Lyle, and Sandra stood up, hovering a few feet away.

While no one was looking, Mr. Muggles hopped onto the coffee table and snatched a date in his teeth. Wagging his tail, he scurried to the side of the couch and nibbled at it contentedly.

"First off," the curator said, gesturing to the sketch of the lone sarcophagus, "these snakes etched into the wall probably represent Isis, since the serpent plays an important role in many of her myths. Asanet must have adopted the same symbol in her own cult following."

Mohinder twitched at the mention of the reptile. Noah eyed him amusedly.

"As for the hieroglyphs," continued the curator, "this part here gives a warning not to disturb the body of Asanet, for '_her wrathful eye brings blood and terror to ungrateful souls_'."

"Well, that's ominous," Mohinder said. "What about the location of the tomb—did Sylar get it off of here?"

"Yes—the writing says, '_She was brought to Tanis, buried among our kings, her head resting seventy cubits south of the foot of Psusennes_.' Tanis is about a hundred kilometers northeast of here; it was once a great city during ancient times, and many kings were entombed there. The ruins are extensive."

"That's where the Company's excavation site is," Noah said.

"Well, then the Company is definitely ten steps ahead of us," Mohinder sighed.

The curator held up his hand. "Wait"—he flipped the sketch over, tracing a finger over the new hieroglyphs—"'_But to honor Isis, Queen of Heaven, Asanet's final tomb lies another hundred cubits east of that great and powerful king, to bring her nearer to the rising sun, to heaven's star_.'"

Mohinder pulled off his glasses and stepped away, lost in thought. Setting his glasses on a side table, he rubbed the date between his fingers and turned back to Noah, whose face was lit with the same eagerness as Mohinder's.

"They're digging in the wrong place!" the two of them said together, and they grinned. Noah clapped Mohinder on the back and put an arm around each of his children's shoulders. Mohinder tossed the date into the air, opening his mouth wide to catch it.

Sandra gasped as Mohinder stood waiting for the date to fall. Suddenly Noah's hand shot forward and snatched the date in midair, mere moments before the fruit would have fallen onto Mohinder's tongue. Confused, Mohinder looked to Noah and followed his gaze to the floor.

Sandra crouched over Mr. Muggle's lifeless form, date pits strewn about the dog's open mouth.

"Bad dates," Noah muttered.

* * *

Later that night, as Noah's calm voice hummed at Lyle's side in the room across the hall, as Sandra's restless footfalls echoed in reflections of moonlight in the kitchen, as Claire's soft weeping fell quiet in her fitful drift to sleep, Mohinder lay across his bed in the full yet empty house, his hollow eyes boring into the ceiling and the photograph of Paris cradled close to his chest.


	4. Chapter 4

**IV.**

"This is not good," said Nathan Petrelli curtly.

He walked briskly through the excavation site, the Haitian at his side. Around them the clink of shovels and the whirr of drills clashed in the dust-ridden air as hundreds of Arabs and Americans alike labored over holes and dunes and pushed wheelbarrows of sand across the dirt. Nathan ducked under a rig of long wooden beams that was hauling buckets out of a deep gouge in the ground; a truck rumbled by, and he shaded his eyes against the swirl of dust that puffed up in its wake.

"I told Sylar not to be premature in his communication to New York," Nathan continued, taking out a handkerchief that once was white and dabbing it beneath the brim of his panama. "Finding this tomb is not an exact science; it doesn't deal in time schedules."

"Your mother is not a patient woman," the Haitian countered, hands in his pockets. "She wants constant reports, and she expects progress. You know this well."

Nathan sighed. "Well, we'll find the girl soon. And then this will all be over."

The Haitian noticed that Nathan's hands quaked as he put away his handkerchief, but said nothing. They brushed past two men in turbans, cloth draped across their faces so that only their eyes were visible. Nathan walked on without hesitation, but the Haitian's eyes lingered on the turbaned men for a split second before he continued onward, one step behind Nathan.

Mohinder adjusted the cloth over his face and eyed the man next to him. "Your glasses give you away," he uttered, voice muffled. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say the Haitian recognized you."

Noah slipped off his spectacles and tucked them into the folds of his cotton robes. "I'm not worried about the Haitian," he said. "Come on, let's find Asanet's tomb."

They kept their heads down as they walked deeper into the excavation site, passing by a long table of Company workers eating breakfast outside of their tents. Mounted on a ridge a few yards away was a surveyor's instrument, its lens swiveled toward the site's center of activity. Mohinder and Noah approached the ridge and climbed upwards over the heavy sand; when they reached the top, Mohinder peered through the instrument, maneuvering it eastward.

"The main excavations are taking place right where we expected," Noah said, looking over the operations. "Seventy cubits south of Psusennes' tomb. One hundred cubits east of that is, what, about fifty yards?"

"That's how I calculated it," Mohinder said, looking up from the instrument. "And if I'm reading this correctly …" He pointed to a dune just beyond the digs, smooth and untouched. "Asanet's tomb should be buried there, under that sand. Here, check me, make sure I've got it right."

He moved to the side and let Noah look through. "Yes," Noah said, lifting his head, "that's it. That's the place."

They stared at the virgin dune for a moment, letting everything sink in.

"We should get off this ridge," Noah said. "People are starting to stare. And we've got to tell Fahim the location so he can bring the truck around." Mohinder nodded, and they found their way down the slope, passing back behind the table of Company men.

"Hey, you there!"

Mohinder and Noah stiffened as one of the men twisted around in his seat, pointing at them. "We're running out of water," the man continued, holding an empty pitcher. "_Wa-ter_." He moved his mouth in exaggerated gestures, as though speaking to a child. "What's a guy have to do around here to get service from you people?"

"Go," Noah hissed, and he stopped to take the pitcher from the table. After a moment of hesitation, Mohinder darted onward past the table, holding the cloth over his face and entering a stretch of sand dotted with dozens of tents.

He ducked between two tents and flinched—three American men stood at the other end of the tents, talking amongst themselves and blocking Mohinder's escape route. Hastily Mohinder moved along the side of one tent, and when his hands found a flap in the canvas he slipped inside.

He looked around. The interior was furnished more comfortably than he expected, dark weaves draped over a round table in one corner and an ornate lantern flickering in the other.

And kneeling by the pole supporting the tent, bound and gagged yet very much alive, was Peter.

Peter snapped to attention as Mohinder entered the tent and stared at Mohinder's veiled face. Beneath disheveled hair his eyes flashed, first with fear, then confusion, then joy as Mohinder ripped away the cloth over his face and knelt at Peter's side. Peter laughed Mohinder's name through the gag, his face beaming.

Mohinder yanked the gag down out of Peter's mouth with shaking hands. Heart thumping madly in his chest, he looked into Peter's glowing eyes and kissed him fervently, pressing his fingers into Peter's cheeks until they left white marks on the other man's face. When they parted, both were panting hard.

"I thought you were dead," Mohinder choked. "They must have switched baskets and I didn't see. Oh, thank God! Are you hurt?"

"No, no, I'm fine," Peter said breathlessly, "but they're giving me injections of curare every twenty minutes or so. I couldn't use my powers even if I had any. You've got to get me out of here, quick—they'll be back any minute."

Mohinder hunched over and examined the knots around Peter's hands, which were tied behind his back and around the tent pole. Swiftly Mohinder rummaged for the switchblade in a pocket underneath his robes.

"They keep asking about you, what you know," Peter continued. "Cut me loose, quick, before they come back—what's wrong?"

Mohinder had paused in his descent toward the knots, brows furrowed in thought. He slowly flipped the switchblade shut.

"What are you doing?"

Mohinder took Peter by the shoulders. "I know where the tomb is, Peter."

"And it's here?" Mohinder nodded. "Well, cut me loose, I'm coming with you!"

"If I take you out of here now, they'll start combing the place for us." He started pulling the gag back over Peter's mouth, and Peter wriggled in his binds, eyes wide in disbelief.

"Are you _crazy_? Get me out of here!" Peter slurred through the gag, but Mohinder cupped his hand over Peter's lips.

"I hate to do this," Mohinder said, "but if you don't sit still and keep quiet, this whole thing's going to be shot. I'll be back to get you," he added, and kissed Peter on the forehead before pulling the cloth over his own face and slipping out of the tent, Peter's garbled shouts ringing in his ears.

He turned left out of the tent, then swerved to the right at the sight of Nathan, the Haitian, and Sylar talking heatedly beyond the open flap of another tent nearby. Mohinder paused, leaning forward to listen, but his eavesdropping was interrupted as a pair of hands grabbed him from behind.

He spun around, swinging a fist, but it was caught by his attacker. Their eyes met, and Mohinder sighed in relief.

"Relax, it's just me," Noah whispered, releasing Mohinder's hand. "Where have you been?"

"I found Peter," Mohinder said. "He's alive, tied up in that tent. But they're looking for us, Noah, and if we rescue him now it'll only alert the Company to our presence."

Noah nodded in agreement. "We get the sarcophagus first. Fahim is on the way to the dune. Let's go."

They weaved through the tents, skirted past a train of mules hauling wheelbarrows of sand, and hiked toward the untouched dune beyond the Company's digs.

"Who knows," Nathan was saying to the other men within the tent, "perhaps the sarcophagus is still waiting in some antechamber for us to discover. Perhaps there's some vital bit of evidence that eludes us. Perhaps—"

"Perhaps your brother can help us," Sylar said in a low voice.

Nathan's mouth vanished into a thin line. "The original piece was sent to him, after all," Sylar continued. "He may know much … if properly motivated."

"He doesn't know anything more than we do," Nathan muttered through gritted teeth.

"Nathan, Nathan," Sylar chuckled, circling the table they were standing around until his face was inches apart from Nathan's. "I can only imagine how epic the betrayal of a brother must be. I pity you, really I do. But you needn't worry—I know the perfect man for this kind of work." He flashed his teeth, eyes wild.

Nathan's eyes widened almost imperceptibly. "You will leave him alone," he hissed.

Sylar laughed, striding out of the tent. Nathan and the Haitian exchanged glances, Nathan's face stretched thin.

On the far side of a barren sand dune, hidden from the scattered digs of the Company, Mohinder tread through the thick sands followed by a trail of turbaned men. The dune loomed above, dry sands giving way to caked dirt and cracked mud that lurched skyward into a steep hill several feet above Mohinder's head. Using his shovel as a walking stick, he hoisted himself upward, scraping past the dirt clumps until he reached the top, where the hill flattened into a dusty plateau overlooking the digs. He whistled, and soon Noah and the men were climbing up the hill, breaking into the dirt with their own shovels and picks.

Mohinder looked out over the digs for a moment, catching sight of the tent where Peter lay, waiting. Then he turned, breathed in deeply, and shoveled through the broken tiles of mud and dust.

* * *

Against a cinnamon-red sky, amidst a rising shower of fizzled heat, before a sun blazing white-hot in its final descent beneath the desert, a blackened silhouette stripped away the last of his robes. Dry gusts breaking against his blouse, he paced before a rhythm of figures chanting to the steady beat of their shovels.

The silhouette reached down and plucked a fedora from the darkness, placing it snugly atop his curls.

* * *

Only after the sky fell cold and Mohinder shrugged on his leather jacket did someone hit stone. "Find the edges!" he shouted over the gasping wind. Thunderclouds roiled above them and spat out lightning across the dark horizon, but rain still eluded them. Mohinder shivered.

He grabbed a pry-bar and joined Noah and the others in lifting up the flat block of stone they had uncovered. With a final collective grunt, the block broke away from the sand, expelling dank, ancient air into the wind. They heaved the block to the side, pushing it away until the rectangular void in the dune was bare and vulnerable.

Noah took a torch from one of the Arabs, and he and Mohinder lay prostrate at the edge of the darkness to peer inside. Firelight somewhere below sputtered and flickered and cast a murky glow over the space, but not enough for either of them to see by. A flashbulb of lightning screamed through the darkness, illuminating the head of a giant statue glaring into the churning heavens. And for one fleeting, terrible moment, Mohinder glimpsed the stone floor down below.

Noah squinted in the dim powder of light, frowning. "Why is the floor moving?"

Mohinder swallowed. "Give me your torch," he said. He took the light from Noah with numb fingers and dropped it into the darkness.

Coating the floor, seething and writhing like the black thunderheads outside, were thousands of hissing snakes. They slithered and twisted amid one another, bellies sliding across bellies, damp sand sticking to slick scales, weaving a wet and living carpet. Bodies black and tenuous, the serpents recoiled from the torch Mohinder had thrown and twined themselves around each other in a squelching mass of tails and tongues.

Mohinder choked back the bile that had surged into his throat. He rolled to one side, blood draining from his face.

"Snakes," he croaked. "Why'd it have to be snakes?"

"Asps," Noah added. "Very dangerous." He patted Mohinder on the arm. "You go first."

* * *

Peter opened his eyes, blinking away drowsiness. For a moment he was disoriented, trying to remember why he was kneeling in the dirt and why his mouth tasted like cotton. In a rush his mind caught up with his senses, and for the first time since he had drifted out of sleep he realized someone was untying his hands.

He struggled to turn around, hoping for dark skin and a tattered fedora, but instead found himself staring into the grim eyes of his brother.

Nathan came around and gently loosened the knot in the gag, slipping it off over Peter's head. He kept his eyes downcast, but felt Peter's gaze project a dozen emotions onto his forehead. Nathan stood, moving away toward the table on the other side of the tent. Peter hesitated for a split second before dashing toward the open tent flap—but the Haitian loomed in the entrance, a sudden strike of lightning outlining his rigid silhouette.

"If you're trying to escape on foot," Nathan said, his back turned, "the desert is three weeks in every direction."

"I wasn't planning on walking," Peter snapped.

Nathan moved aside, revealing a tray of bread, cheese, and water on the table. "C'mon, Pete. I know there's something up with your abilities, or else the Company would never have been able to capture you like this. You can't fly out of here any more than I can walk through walls."

Peter wasn't sure what to say to this.

"Have something to eat, Peter," he continued, gesturing to the tray of food. "You must be hungry."

Peter was in fact a lot thirstier than he was hungry, and he couldn't see why Nathan would untie him just to poison him with a late-night dinner; so he approached the table and emptied the glass of water in one long draught. Then he ripped into the loaf of bread, sliding into a seat across from Nathan, who once again was avoiding Peter's eyes.

"I'm sorry they've been treating you like this," Nathan said quietly. Peter glared at him between bites.

"I think you mean _we_, not _they_. Last I checked, these people were friends of yours."

"They're not my friends. Necessary allies, perhaps, but not friends. They have the resources I need right now."

"The Helix Foundation has resources," Peter countered. "Why not go to them?"

"Because you and Mohinder—" He stopped himself, but Peter knew what came next.

"Ah, I see. Because you couldn't ever admit to yourself that your little brother had fallen in love with a man. And that justifies ignoring the Foundation and going to the dark side?"

"Not everything is as black and white as you think it is, Peter."

Peter finished eating the rest of the bread in silence before speaking again, his voice quiet but emphatic. "Nathan, you've been sleeping with the enemy for two years—you go around capturing innocent people so that the Company can experiment on them—you represent _everything_ Mohinder and I have been fighting against."

Nathan narrowed his eyes. "What you and Mohinder do is pointless. Hiding people from the Company? The Company might do some questionable things, but in the end, we—"

"Ha!" Peter barked, rising to his feet. "_We_! You admit it, then, you're one of them. And don't tell me the Company does good things, Nathan, anything our mother is involved with these days is poisonous."

"Mom's changed," Nathan said.

"Mom manipulated you into thinking she was reformed. Hell, she has _Sylar_ doing her bidding. I'll never understand how you can sleep at night. And this Asanet business? The only reason you're looking for her is to control who has abilities and who doesn't. Can you imagine what kind of power the Company would wield if they got their hands on—"

"Dammit, Peter," Nathan shouted, jumping to his feet, "Asanet isn't for the Company, she's for me!"

Peter stared at Nathan, who now met his eyes with desperate determination.

Nathan circled the table and stood face-to-face with Peter, putting a hand on the younger brother's shoulder. "Listen," he hissed, "I joined the Company for a lot of reasons that you'll never understand, but in the last few months I started questioning some things." Peter opened his mouth to speak, but Nathan censored him with a dangerous look. "Don't interrupt me. I was questioning some of my decisions, but then that Mendez painting showed up in my mailbox. And for a couple of days, I did some of my own research and learned what Asanet could do. I'm smiling in that painting, Pete. Smiling at the thought of losing my ability. And everything I'd been thinking about all clicked into place—I didn't just want out of the Company; I wanted out of this entire _life_."

He broke away from Peter and paced restlessly about the room. "Everything wrong with my life stems back to this ability. Heidi's accident. Dad's death, he and Ma being linked to all of this. You thinking you could fly and trying to get yourself killed—repeatedly. Not to mention that four years ago, I was willing to sacrifice half of New York for the power that Linderman promised me. None of it would have happened if I didn't know how to fly, if Dad and Mom and Linderman and the others hadn't singled me out to be the politician who could change everything. Heidi and I would still be together, and I'd still see my sons. And you wouldn't hate me so much for what I've become."

He sighed heavily. "I want _out_, Peter. I took the painting to the Company because I knew they could find this girl faster than I could alone. And once I'm cured, I'm leaving that place for good. Starting fresh, off to lead a normal life."

Peter watched Nathan drag a hand through his hair. "You can't just give up, Nathan," Peter said softly. "Being cured isn't going to solve everything."

"But it'll be a start, Pete."

Peter closed the distance between the two of them. "Well, it doesn't matter, anyway. You can't wake Asanet. She isn't going to cure you; she's going to kill you."

Nathan's head snapped up. "What?"

"My sketch. It shows you dead, at the foot of the sarcophagus."

Nathan stared at him, face thin. Peter took Nathan by the shoulders and watched the war rage behind his brother's eyes for a long moment.

"You're lying," Nathan muttered, jerking out of Peter's hold. "Sylar saw the sketch, and I wasn't in it. You just don't want me to go after this girl."

Peter stepped back, feeling as though he had been slapped in the face. "I'm not lying. Another image was drawn on the back of the sketch that Sylar didn't see. You're my _brother_, Nathan, no matter what, and I'm not about to let you go get yourself killed!"

Lightning flashed, and a new silhouette flickered in the open tent flap. Argument forgotten, Peter rushed to Nathan's side as Sylar stepped lightly into the tent.

"We meet again, Peter," Sylar sneered, wrapped in his black trench coat. "I see you and your brother have caught up; how touching. Unfortunately, you and I have far more important matters to discuss. Please, take a seat."

Peter glanced at Nathan before sitting hesitantly at the table; Nathan remained at his side. Sylar slid into a chair across from them and folded his hands on the table.

"Now," he said, smirking, "what shall we talk about?"

* * *

Mohinder dangled from a rope halfway between the snakes and the open sky. Looking up, he glimpsed Noah's head peering into the tomb; and with a quick glance down over his shoulder, he saw the landing they had created, a bare patch of dust circled haphazardly by torches. The snakes watched him, as though waiting for him to descend. He loosened his grip on the rope and slid down, jolting to a halt as he squeezed his gloved fingers over the twine again. The rope swung him like a pendulum; the slithers and hisses only grew louder and more nauseating.

Suddenly the rope slackened. For a split second he felt weightless, hovering above the torches as the twine crumpled toward his fingers; and then gravity heaved itself upon him, thrusting him down into the dirt with a heavy thud.

He jerked up his head to look around, and his stomach dropped into the floor.

Staring at him with acidic green eyes was a cobra, thick body reared and bruise-black hood opened wide. Their faces hovered inches apart; Mohinder saw every scale, every fang, every shuddering muscle in heightened detail, felt the snake's breath flick against his cheek, heard its hiss buzz in his ears until nothing else existed. He kneeled, frozen—fingers clutching dirt, legs seizing yet unmoving, jaw clamped shut so tightly that his temples throbbed—and didn't dare breathe or think or allow his heart to beat. For a full minute he remained motionless, except for his eyes, which quivered like jelly under the cobra's unflinching scrutiny.

Slowly, laboriously, with muscles moaning and protesting, Mohinder backed away from the serpent. The cobra slithered down to the floor, and Mohinder finally exhaled, dizzy and drenched in cold sweat. Earlier he and Noah had lowered a gas can into the circle of torches; Mohinder reached for it now, pumping gasoline over anything that moved, and tossed a torch into the mass of bodies. Flames leapt up from the floor in a rush of heat and sizzling snake flesh. Mohinder watched them burn with grim satisfaction.

As the fire began to die out, he peered up into the opening he had come through. "Noah, get down here!" he called, voice cracking. The rope still hung down from the opening; the Arabs must have lost their grip only for a moment, he thought to himself, and hadn't dropped the rope altogether. In a few minutes Noah was lowering himself down through the hole, and soon he dropped safely at Mohinder's side.

"You okay?" Noah asked, picking up a torch.

"Been better," Mohinder muttered, waving his torch at the worming carpet. "I can see part of the sarcophagus from here; we need to get to the other side of the tomb."

Their torches had nearly burned out by the time the two of them forged a path through the writhing serpents and managed to step gingerly around them; but soon they stood upon a stone platform extending out of a wall and witnessed the physical embodiment of Peter Petrelli's first sketch.

The sarcophagus rested atop three steps, and on either side of the wall two torches flickered and stained the coffin's curves cinnamon-gold. Snake-forms were etched into the wall's ancient blocks above the sarcophagus, and in the sputtering torchlight they seemed to writhe upon the stone. Columns of shadowy hieroglyphics ornamented the side of the coffin. The lid was shaped into that same form of a sleeping woman, her hands folded peacefully atop her breast, her heels perched delicately on the edge of the sarcophagus.

Noah and Mohinder stood in the presence of the sarcophagus for a long moment, neither man approaching it. Mohinder's scalp tingled, and the hair on his arms stood up. The air felt different here, electric, snapping with restless anticipation.

Mohinder swallowed and slowly ascended the steps. Reaching the top, he placed a hand upon the stone woman's head, tracing a finger over the faded kohl around her eyes. The woman's body was dotted with hieroglyphs, too, and he noticed again the half-helix wedged among the other symbols.

As he leaned in closer, his side brushed against something jutting out of the sarcophagus. Looking down, he noticed a circular band of stone attached where the lid met the side of the coffin. The band was large enough to fit his fist through, and after further inspection he saw an identical loophole at the other end, by the woman's feet.

"Look," Noah said; he had followed Mohinder up the steps and was now standing by the rightmost torch. He crouched down and picked up two long poles that had been lying on the floor; both were just wide enough to fit snugly through the stone circles.

Wordlessly, Mohinder took a pole and slid it through the two loopholes on one side of the coffin as Noah did the same on the other. They looked up at one another in silence. Neither noted out loud how eerie it was that the sarcophagus had been built for easy travel, or that the coffin seemed to be waiting for someone to take it out of this darkness. And neither made mention of the two torches that still burned steadily through the thick, old air after all these centuries.

With Mohinder at the head and Noah at the foot, the two of them gripped the poles and hoisted the sarcophagus into the air. The stone vessel was lighter than Mohinder had expected; with some effort they carried it down the steps and off the platform, walking cautiously across the path they had made in the sand. Soon they reached the dangling rope, a rectangle of early light spilling in from the surface onto a wooden crate the Arabs had lowered down a few moments before. Mohinder and Noah settled the sarcophagus in the crate and boarded up the sides, fitting the top piece of the crate into place. They tied the slack rope securely around the crate and motioned for the Arabs to take it up out of the tomb.

* * *

"Next time, your _sidekick_ is not allowed during an interrogation, Nathan," Sylar snapped, gesturing to the Haitian as the three of them burst out of the tent and walked across the sands. Dawn had settled over the excavation site, decorating the sky with clouds of color.

"As I told you before," Nathan said bitterly, "Peter knows nothing more than we do. Your entire charade in there was a complete waste of—"

He stopped in his tracks, staring at the horizon. In the distance, atop a sand dune untouched by the Company, half a dozen men scurried about a large crate just big enough to hold a coffin. Nathan rushed forward to get a better look, the sport coat in his grasp flapping in the breeze.

"Sylar, wake your men!"


	5. Chapter 5

**V.**

"Mohinder," Noah said urgently, circling the snakes and sweeping his torch at them, "the torches are running out."

Mohinder kicked sand into the eyes of a snake slithering over one of the torches bordering the landing area. "I know, I know," he said, and nodded toward the rope. "Go on, get out of here. I'll be right behind you."

Noah hesitated before handing his torch to Mohinder and climbing up the rope. Sweat stinging his eyes, Mohinder jabbed the torch at an asp nudging through into the landing. He glanced up and saw Noah's feet disappear past the edge of the opening. Then, to his horror, he watched the rope tumble down and land with a _fwap_ on his shoulder.

"Noah, what the _hell_ are you—"

"Good morning, Dr. Suresh," called a voice.

Mohinder found himself staring into the face of Nathan Petrelli, who crouched over the opening and waved his panama in greeting. Mohinder glimpsed Noah up above, kneeling on the ground and hands clasped behind his head.

"Why, Dr. Suresh," Nathan drawled, "what in the world are you doing in such a nasty place?"

"Why don't you come down here and I'll show you," Mohinder retorted.

"Thank you, Doctor, but I think we're all quite comfortable up here. Aren't we?" The Haitian and Sylar suddenly loomed in the opening, the latter smiling wickedly. "And it seems, once again," Nathan continued, "that what was once briefly yours is now mine. I appreciate all the hard work you put into finding it for us."

"The Hawaiian girl escaped, if you recall," Mohinder barked, gritting his teeth. "The sarcophagus won't stay yours for long."

"I don't think you're in a position to make such claims, Doctor," Nathan said.

"And I'm afraid we must be going now, Mohinder," Sylar added. "Our prize is awaited in New York. But of course I would never think to leave you down there in that awful place, all alone."

"Let go of me!" shouted another voice, and Mohinder blanched. Nathan stood suddenly as a man on the other side of the opening led a struggling Peter toward the pit.

"No!" Nathan yelled. "Sylar, what is this? Peter is not—_Peter_!"

But the man had already heaved Peter into the pit. Mohinder cried out, choking on his own breath—but Peter's hands caught onto the head of the massive statue standing guard within the tomb, and he dangled there like a drop of water on a leaf.

"Mohinder!" Peter shrieked, fingers scraping wildly at stone.

"Peter!" responded Mohinder and Nathan at once. Nathan clung to the edge of the opening, watching in desperation as Mohinder held out his arms and hovered beneath Peter's flailing legs. "I got you, Peter," Mohinder said, "I got you—"

And suddenly Peter's fingers touched nothing. He tumbled through the air, thudding into the statue's legs and skidding off the side right into Mohinder's outstretched arms. They collapsed together into the sand. Peter snapped his head up and found a cobra staring back at him.

"Holy _shit_—"

Peter scrambled backwards on his knees and tripped over Mohinder's body just as the cobra lashed out. He yelped and toppled, smacking Mohinder's face with his knee and sending both of them into a frantic flurry of limbs and curses.

Nathan hurried to his feet and grabbed Sylar roughly by the collar. "Peter was mine!" he snapped.

"He was no use to us, you said it yourself," Sylar spat. "Now get your hands off me, or else I'll remove them for you."

Nathan released him, eyes seething. "Only our mission for your mother matters," Sylar continued, voice low and dangerous. "I wonder sometimes, Nathan, if you have that clearly in mind." He stormed off, clipping Nathan's shoulder as he left. Nathan approached the opening again, face contorted in pain, looking down into the pit as men began sliding the stone block over it.

"Nathan!" Peter screamed, but his voice was cut short as the block dropped into place.

As the suffocating darkness enveloped the tomb, Mohinder and Peter scrambled to their feet, their torches casting a faint halo of light over the writhing floor. "Wave it at anything that slithers," Mohinder said, nodding to Peter's torch and shoving his own at a slippery body near their feet.

"Easy for you to say," Peter replied after one last glance at the ceiling. "This whole _place_ is slithering. How the hell are we going to get out of here?"

"I'm working on it, I'm working on it," Mohinder muttered, looking around. He eyed Peter warily. "So you're talking to Nathan now, are you?"

"If by talking you mean arguing, then yes. He didn't believe me when I told him Asanet would kill him. He's so obsessed with getting rid of his ability that he can't see the consequences. And don't even start on how Nathan's a lost cause," Peter added curtly. "He'll come around, I know he will. I saw it in his eyes tonight."

"Your endless hope in your brother never ceases to amaze me," Mohinder grumbled. "I would've thought after he joined the Company that you would've learned to stop putting your faith in him."

"He doesn't want to be in the Company anymore," Peter retorted. "And please, can we _not_ have this conversation again? Just because you and Nathan never got along doesn't mean that he—Mohinder!"

Peter stabbed his torch at Mohinder's belt, and Mohinder jumped back as the sparks licked his skin. "_Jesus_!" Mohinder shouted.

"Sorry, I thought your whip was a—"

"Watch yourself, Peter!" said Mohinder, and he waved his torch at a snake about to strike Peter's foot. Looking up, his eye caught a glimpse of movement on the wall across from the statue: a snake flopped out of a hole in the wall, followed by another. Mohinder glanced at the statue, then again at the wall, and hastily he darted behind Peter toward the statue.

"Wait, where are you going?"

"Through that wall," Mohinder answered, flicking his bullwhip toward the ceiling. The leather snapped around the statue's head; Mohinder tugged on his end, making sure it was secure, and with the torch between his teeth he started to climb.

"Don't you leave me down here!" Peter said as Mohinder ascended. Mohinder ignored him, hoisting himself up along the statue's back. His head peeked over the shoulder, and lounging atop the stone was a serpent, tail flickering. Mohinder shoved the torch flame into the snake, and with a frantic hiss it dropped. Below, Peter cursed loudly and flung the dead snake off his shoulders.

Before Peter could hurtle those curses at Mohinder, he caught the torch Mohinder tossed down. The flame was gone; Peter's torch was flickering, too, and the torches circling the ground were already dead or dying. The darkness, like the snakes at Peter's feet, continued to creep in on all sides.

"There are two more torches on a wall down that way," Mohinder called. Peter looked up; Mohinder had wedged himself between the statue and the ceiling, his feet leaning against the statue's head.

"Yeah, and there's a couple hundred snakes between me and that wall," Peter muttered. "Just hurry, Mohinder."

Mohinder pushed his feet against the stone head, eyes squeezed shut as his muscles cried out. Far below, where the stone met sand, a tiny fracture formed.

"Mohinder," Peter said again anxiously, watching the only remaining torchlight tremble weakly in his grasp.

Mohinder pushed again—again—and the statue began to tilt. "Here we go," he huffed. "Get ready …"

With one final shudder, Peter's torch succumbed to the darkness.

And then the statue groaned, scraped, lurched forward. Mohinder clutched stone and fell along with it, riding the statue until it crashed thunderously into the wall, rocks avalanching and dust billowing up in hazy clouds.

Coughing, Peter tripped through the darkness and climbed over the statue's torso. "Mohinder?" he called, squinting through the dust. He groped for answers in the thick air and found a familiar hand.

"I'm here," Mohinder said.

The wall had caved in where the statue collapsed, opening up a wide passageway draped in cobwebs and stale snake skins. Hand in hand, Peter and Mohinder ventured forward. As they walked, the path narrowed but brightened, until finally Mohinder's hand tightened in Peter's grasp—sunlight sliced through the space between two boulders in the wall up ahead.

"Look," Mohinder breathed, but he didn't need to say it, for both of them were already staring eagerly at the prick of light. They rushed forward and, deciding on a particularly loose-looking boulder, pressed their hands and shoulders and backs against the stone until it began to budge. After a few minutes of labored grunts, the stone finally surrendered and tumbled outward; Mohinder and Peter leaned over the side and inhaled the fresh air. Mohinder was the first to manage to climb out of the hole, pulling Peter through once he found his footing.

Propellers flippering in their ears, growling engine reverberating in the sand, the two of them heard the plane before they saw it. They stood atop a dune overlooking a makeshift airstrip. The plane, a military-green flying wing, was waiting restively in the center of the strip, its pilot rummaging within the domed cockpit. Large wooden blocks were wedged under the plane's tires to keep it stationary. Surrounding the plane were two fuel tank trucks and a long tent; the Company's excavations were hidden by a hill rising above one side of the airstrip. Mohinder and Peter skidded down from their escape hole and crouched behind a group of fuel barrels, peering out. A man climbed inside one of the fuel trucks and drove away toward the excavation site.

"They're going to fly it out of here," Mohinder said after surveying the operation. "When the sarcophagus gets loaded, we're already going to be on that plane." He turned to Peter. "Stay here."

Mohinder moved to stand, but Peter pulled him back down. "No you don't," Peter said sharply. "Whatever you're planning on doing, I'm coming with you. I know my powers aren't working, but that doesn't mean I can't help."

Mohinder's hands found their way to Peter's shoulders. "I'll not have you come along just to get yourself killed."

Peter bristled. "I'm not a child," he muttered darkly. "I can handle myself. Don't worry about me."

"Easier said than done," Mohinder said, quietly now. "Please, Peter, just stay here and let me handle this." With that, he jumped up and darted out into the open, moving toward the plane. Peter cursed to himself and hesitated behind the barrels, watching.

Mohinder ducked under one of the wings and started crawling across the smooth surface of the plane toward the cockpit. The pilot's back was turned, and the propellers drowned out any noise that Mohinder made. But with a shout from behind, Mohinder spun around; a mechanic had seen him from within the tent and was now brandishing his wrench menacingly.

Mohinder kicked the mechanic in the jaw before sliding down the plane, avoiding the whirring propeller blades as he and the mechanic began exchanging punches. The pilot was oblivious, headgear clamped over his ears. Seeing his opportunity, Peter crept out from behind the barrels and headed toward the plane.

As Peter approached the aircraft, another figure exited the tent. Seeing the tussle, she grinned, walking forward and peeling off her jacket. By the time she reached the plane, Mohinder had knocked out the mechanic and was on his way toward the cockpit again.

"Dr. Suresh," she called, her voice carrying over the engine and propellers. Both Mohinder and the pilot turned at the sound of her voice, and Mohinder slid off the plane.

"Niki Sanders?" Mohinder asked incredulously.

"Niki's dead," Jessica said, cracking her knuckles. "And you should be, too. Let's fix that."

And she socked him square in the mouth.

Mohinder felt as though his face had imploded; he hurtled backwards through the air, slamming into the wing and collapsing to the ground. Chuckling, Jessica strolled forward and yanked him up by the collar as the pilot pulled out a pistol. Mohinder struggled in Jessica's tight hold, but before she could clench her fist again, he sank his teeth into her arm.

Jessica cried out in rage and threw Mohinder into one of the plane's tires. He didn't have time to notice that one of the wooden blocks was gone as he ducked under the wing to the other side of the plane. He looked up, swerved as the pilot shot at him and missed, and ran right into Jessica's punch, spinning from the force of it and barely keeping his balance. She swung again, and this time he landed in the dirt, his blood staining the sand dark pink.

Mohinder snatched a clump of dirt and threw it into Jessica's face. She roared, clawing at her eyes, and stumbled back, giving the pilot a clear shot. But before he could fire, Peter appeared behind him and hurled the wooden wedge over his head, sending the pilot leadenly into the cockpit where his head smashed into the controls. The plane lurched, and Peter fell to his stomach; Mohinder sidestepped the plane wheel as it rolled passed him. With one tire still pivoted by a wooden block, slowly the plane began to circle the airstrip.

Peter crawled into the cockpit, attempting to haul the pilot's body off the controls. His elbow knocked against the clear dome of the cockpit, and it snapped shut just as Peter pulled off the pilot to find the joysticks bent and broken. When yanking on the destroyed controls did nothing to stop the plane, Peter tried the latch on the dome instead. It didn't budge.

He looked up frantically. Mohinder was swinging at Jessica, blood smeared across his chin, but she kneed him in the stomach before he could follow through. Peter slammed his fists against the plastic dome. "Come on," he said to himself through gritted teeth, squeezing his eyes shut. DL Hawkins' face flickered across his eyelids as he took a slow breath and pressed his palms against the dome. Nothing. "Come _on_," he repeated. He tried to remember the kiss, the deep and fervent kiss that had given him power just days ago, thought back on the look on Mohinder's face when they had reunited in the tent—but then Nathan's stubborn, stony eyes shot through his mind. Peter let out an exasperated sigh and slouched back, searching for ideas that didn't involve his abilities.

His eye caught sight of a canvassed truck rumbling in from the excavation site toward the airstrip, a dozen or so armed men riding in the back. Peter looked around inside the plane and noticed that a tunnel extended from where he crouched in the cockpit toward another dome, where a machine gun stood mounted on a tripod. Peter crawled through the tunnel and took hold of the gun, finding the truck in the crosshairs.

As the machine gun peppered the truck with bullets, Mohinder dodged a set of propellers and tumbled beneath a wing. His pistol slipped out of its holster and clattered to the ground, but before he could retrieve it Jessica rounded a corner and cut him off, her fists hovering in front of her.

Both of them reeled as an explosion drummed in their chests. Mohinder looked around; in its frenzied shower of bullets, Peter's machine gun had pummeled the fuel barrels he and Mohinder were hiding behind a short while ago, sending a blooming fireball of gas and metal into the bleached sky.

Beyond the airstrip and across the dunes, Nathan and Sylar felt the concussion quake in the sand. They burst from their tents, passing the boxed-up sarcophagus, and watched wide-eyed as the fireball mushroomed above the distant sand. "Stay with the sarcophagus!" Nathan shouted to his men as he, Sylar, and the Haitian sprinted toward the pillar of fire.

Peter tripped backwards in the wake of the explosion, losing his grip on the machine gun. Before he had much time to think, the plane suddenly screeched and shuddered. Peter plastered his face against the dome to see what had happened. Liquid was spurting out of a puncture in the fuel tank truck parked a few yards away; the plane had scraped its wing against the valves in its slow spiral around the airstrip, and now gasoline splashed in steady streams toward both the plane and the fiery heap of debris.

"Oh my God," Peter breathed as comprehension dawned on his face.

Down below, Mohinder's expression was identical, looking from the fuel truck to the wreckage to the plane. "Peter," he choked.

He was clambering up onto the plane before he even realized it, but Jessica was already at his heels. She snatched Mohinder's ankle and ripped him off the plane, sending him face-first into the dirt. Mohinder kicked her from the ground and leapt to his feet, punching and pummeling with newfound strength. Jessica stumbled backward, her face a mess of blood and dirt, and with a furious grunt she slammed her fist into Mohinder's chest. He collapsed, panting, lying flat on his back.

Jessica loomed over him. "Get up," she growled, wiping blood off her mouth. "I'm not finished with you yet."

Mohinder rolled to his side, spitting up blood, before glancing at Jessica. Behind her, the propellers closed in, their deadly blades spinning in a blur of steel. Jessica frowned as Mohinder's mouth fell open in horror; and when she turned around, Mohinder hid his face in his hands.

She screamed. Peter squeezed his eyes shut as her blood sprayed across the clear dome like rain on a windshield. Mohinder tumbled out of the way of the blades, grabbed his revolver from the dirt, and scrambled onto the plane.

Fuel splashed dangerously close to the smoldering barrels as Mohinder and Peter shouted at one another through the plastic dome.

"It's stuck!" Peter yelled, banging on the plastic.

"Turn it, right there, try that," Mohinder yelled back, pointing at the latch. But after Peter fumbled with it uselessly for a few seconds, Mohinder cried, "Forget it, just stay back!" and shot two bullets at the latch. It popped open; Mohinder grabbed Peter by the wrist, yanking him out of the cockpit. They skidded down the side of the plane and bolted wildly for the dunes just as the barrels, fuel truck, and airplane erupted in three successive balls of fire that pounded like earthquakes in their chests.


	6. Chapter 6

**VI.**

The airstrip bustled with Arabs and Company employees alike as Nathan, Sylar and the Haitian surveyed what was left of the flying wing. Sylar fumed visibly. Nathan quietly studied the wreckage, an odd look on his face.

"Get the sarcophagus out of this place immediately," Sylar barked to his men. "Have it put on the truck; we'll fly out from Cairo. _Damn_ that Suresh," he added under his breath before stalking away. With a sideways glance at Nathan, the Haitian followed in Sylar's wake.

"Peter," Nathan mused to the flames. He joined the Haitian in walking back to the digs.

Noah Bennet watched them leave from farther down the airstrip, wrapping the cloth of his turban over his face. As he crept in the direction of the digs, a hushed noise made him pause. He turned; Mohinder and Peter were crouching within an empty tent flap, beckoning for Noah.

Noah darted to them. "Oh, thank God," he whispered, joining them within the tent. "I thought you two were dead."

"And I thought you had been captured," Mohinder said, wiping away the blood on his face with a handkerchief that Noah proffered. "How'd you escape?"

A wry smile played across Noah's face. "You don't give me enough credit, Mohinder. I did this type of work long before either of you ever did." His expression changed. "The sarcophagus. They're taking it on a truck to Cairo."

"Truck?" Mohinder moved his jaw in exasperation. "What truck?"

"Come on," Noah said, and the three of them emerged from the tent, running stealthily toward the excavation site.

They reached the digs just in time to find cover behind a rise of sand and watch the truck being loaded. Sylar had apparently become fed up with his men and was moving the sarcophagus into the truck bed himself, holding up his hands as the crate moved by its own accord into the vehicle. Once the crate was settled, several armed men climbed inside. An open-roofed car pulled in behind them, a machine gun mounted on the back, and a man on a motorcycle revved his engine. Sylar, Nathan, and the Haitian seated themselves in a separate car, a black, luxurious convertible that had lost its sheen in the dusty desert. As their driver started the engine, Mohinder lay back against the sand, thinking.

"Get back to Cairo," he said to Noah and Peter. "Get us some transport to America—boat, plane, anything. Be ready for me at Fahim's place. I'm going after that truck."

"Mohinder," Peter sighed.

"Don't," Mohinder said. "You're not coming with me."

Peter crossed him arms but didn't argue. "Alright then," he said instead, "so how do you plan on going after the truck?"

Mohinder lifted his fedora and wiped the sweat from his forehead. "I don't know," he mumbled, "I'm making this up as I go along." He slid down the sand and disappeared between two tents. Noah and Peter exchanged looks before making their way out of the excavation site unseen.

As the sarcophagus' caravan trailed out from the digs, Mohinder burst into the open on the back of a white Arabian horse, speeding through the excavation site and out into the desert. Dust whipped up behind him like a cape as he traveled across the sand dunes that rose above either side of the road. He looked out over the landscape and watched as the convoy drew closer—the black convertible, the truck, the armed car, and the motorcycle pulling in the rear. The horse had brought him level with the truck now; with a snap of the reins he led the steed down a slope onto the road and closed in behind the truck. He could see the crate rattling inside the canvassed truck bed, flanked on either side by six armed men. The machine gun roared behind him; hastily he led the horse around the side of the truck toward the passenger seat as the six men shouted for the gunner to stop firing at them.

Mohinder rode parallel to the truck now, inches from its side. He drew a sharp breath and flung himself toward the canvas, leaving the horse behind and clinging to the side of the truck. After steadying himself he opened the passenger door and flipped the man sitting inside out onto the blurred road. The driver turned, stunned; but Mohinder was already climbing inside the cab. He punched the driver and grabbed him in a chokehold, the steering wheel swerving aimlessly.

By this time the lead car had heard the commotion behind them, so Nathan, the Haitian, and Sylar twisted around to watch as Mohinder and the driver grappled with one another. "Speed up," Sylar barked to the driver, and the man pressed his foot to the gas. The road curved among the mountainous sand dunes, and up ahead one side gave way to a sudden drop down into a valley. The convertible's tires squealed as the driver rounded the corner, and its passengers gripped their seats, still turned back to watch the fight in the truck.

The truck veered dangerously as the curve in the road approached. For a moment, in between their punching and smacking, both Mohinder and the truck driver glanced up and saw the cliff. They took the wheel together and steered the truck through the curve, the left-hand tires barely skimming the ground. The driver looked to Mohinder in relief, but Mohinder grabbed the scuff of the man's shirt and heaved him out of the cab, slamming the door behind him.

Mohinder glared through the windshield at Sylar and accelerated. "Speed up, you idiot!" Sylar said again, but the truck's grill had already rammed into the convertible's bumper, sending the car toward the cliff edge. Suddenly the tires sped off into the air; the car lurched, the valley gaping miles below, but with a swift flick of Sylar's hand the car kept moving forward, its tires spinning over nothingness. The driver kept his foot plastered to the gas pedal as Sylar maneuvered the car back onto the road, safely ahead of the rumbling truck.

Nathan let out the breath he had been holding and pried his hands off the back of his seat. "Enough of this cat and mouse game," Sylar said through gritted teeth. He raised his hand toward the truck, ready to strike—but the Haitian took hold of Sylar's wrist, holding it steady.

Sylar snapped his head toward the Haitian. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"You risk damaging the cargo if you act," the Haitian said coolly. "A flick of your wrist, and the sarcophagus will be gone forever, over that cliff."

"How _dare_ you—"

"Let your men do the dirty work, sir," the Haitian continued, fingers still wrapped around Sylar's arm. "Dr. Suresh will not get away."

They stared at one another, Sylar's whole face shaking with fury, for a long moment. But finally, with the slightest nod from Sylar, the Haitian let go, settling back into the seat next to Nathan. Sylar growled through his teeth and slammed his hand into the dashboard, making the driver cringe. The cliff faded away behind them, palm trees and greenery now flanking either side of the wide road.

Mohinder watched the exchange in the lead car with interest, nearly forgetting about the armed car and motorcycle behind him until the car appeared suddenly in his rearview mirror, speeding alongside the truck bed. The gunner aimed his weapon, and Mohinder swerved the truck into the foliage, sending the armed car careening into the tree trunks and down a hidden slope, where it flipped upside down in a heap of men. Mohinder eyed the other mirror and saw the motorcycle come up on his left. He waited until the motorcycle had crept farther forward before he yanked the wheel, sending the bike screeching through a pool of mud and the man spinning into a tree trunk.

A grin pulled at Mohinder's mouth as he drove, only the convertible remaining on the road ahead of him. But he glanced in his mirrors again and discovered that the men from the back of the truck were now clinging to the canvas, inching forward toward the cab.

"Great," Mohinder muttered.

He swerved the truck left and right, ramming two men into the trees until they toppled off. Yet several men were still holding on, and with the mirrors as his only guide, Mohinder couldn't tell how many were left. He continued snaking across the road, watching the reflections of two more thugs fall off into the sand, and smiled when the mirrors showed no more.

Then he grunted in pain as a bullet ripped through his left bicep. Clutching his arm, he turned to see a man pointing a gun through the passenger-side window. Mohinder kicked the door that the thug was trying to open, and the man dangled from the hinges, his feet dragging along the sand. He kicked again and the door swung wildly, finally falling off with a screech of metal that sent the thug into the foliage. Vision cloudy, his arm throbbing, Mohinder gripped the wheel with both hands and peered at the road through the blood-spotted windshield.

The pulse of his wound had only just begun to dull when a pair of legs suddenly catapulted through the driver-side window, ramming directly into Mohinder's bicep. He choked back a scream as the man punched him in the same spot, knocking Mohinder into the passenger seat and nearly out the hole where the door had been. Mohinder doubled over in pain, eyes squeezed closed; but the thug grabbed him and heaved Mohinder's head through the windshield. The glass shattered around him as he tumbled down the nose of the truck, latching onto the hood ornament with his good arm. The ornament bent, then broke, and he slid down to clutch the iron rods of the grill. Those bent forward too, and he found himself barely hanging on to the front of the truck, his legs straddled around the left tire and the ground whizzing by just inches below.

He heard a voice behind him. Sylar was shouting to the truck driver, urging him on so that he'd crush Mohinder into the back of the convertible. Mohinder felt the truck accelerate, his shoes skidding across the sand. With the convertible closing in, Mohinder bit his lip, trying to ignore the pain, and began to lower himself down the grill and under the truck's bumper.

Nathan watched with wide eyes as Mohinder disappeared underneath the truck, his back and legs scraping over blurred sand. Sylar swept his hands at the truck, but when nothing happened, he glared viciously at the Haitian. "DAMN YOU!" he shrieked, but the Haitian made no response. Sylar looked ready to strangle the man, but instead he followed Nathan's gaze to the truck.

Mohinder had reached the back of the truck now. He hooked his whip around the truck's underbelly and released his grip, lurching suddenly out into the sunlight. Dust and dirt billowed into his lungs as he flapped from the end of the whip, the gravel and sand tearing at his stomach and knees. With a strangled cry he began to pull himself toward the truck, his muscles screaming with the effort. At last he clamped a hand over the back bumper and climbed up into the truck bed, pausing only for a second to catch his breath before swinging onto the side of the canvas. He slid along until he reached the cab, and with a satisfying kick to the thug's head he dove inside, shoving the man away and taking the wheel. Mohinder rammed the man's head into the dashboard three times before chucking him out the windshield, where he groped for the grill and missed, falling onto the road. Mohinder didn't flinch as the truck bounced over the new speed bump.

He thrust the truck into gear and closed in on the convertible. The car swerved to the side as Mohinder approached, so Mohinder sped up until he was level with Sylar, Nathan, and the Haitian. Nathan's and Mohinder's eyes met as Mohinder slammed into the convertible, sending it skidding into the open terrain. The truck zoomed by as the driver lost control of the car, careening into a bank of sand. Sylar and Nathan jumped to their feet and watched the truck rumble into the distance.

Sylar spit out curses and threw his hat onto the car floor. "Follow him, for Christ's sake!" he screamed, and as Nathan and Sylar resumed their seats, the car coasted back onto the road.

As Sylar fumed, Nathan considered the Haitian with a suspicious look. "What game are you playing?" he whispered sharply. The Haitian returned his gaze but didn't answer, his face indecipherable.

When the car rolled into the bazaar in Cairo, the truck was nowhere to be found. They halted in front of a wall of produce vendors, but before the car had come to a full stop Sylar's hand was already around Nathan's throat.

Nathan stared in bewilderment at Sylar's seething eyes. "This is _your_ fault!" Sylar shouted. "_You_ brought the damn Haitian with you when you joined the Company." He leaned in until his face was almost touching Nathan's. "I should kill you right now."

"If you do," Nathan rasped, his fingers digging into the seat, "my mother will lock you up for the rest of your life."

"Angela Petrelli has no power here," Sylar sneered, squeezing. But Nathan looked sideways at the Haitian, whose hand now hovered just above Sylar's forehead.

"Then I will stop you," the Haitian said.

Sylar glared from one man to the other. Nathan's legs scrabbled against the car floor as his vision blurred, Sylar's hand still gripping his throat. The driver watched the scene helplessly, his eyes darting from the Haitian to Sylar to Nathan. Finally Sylar released his grip, and Nathan collapsed into the seat, coughing. The Haitian calmly lowered his hand.

"If we don't get the sarcophagus back," Sylar said in a low, dark voice, "I will slice open that head of yours, Angela be damned. Take us out of here," he snapped, and with a start the driver put the car in gear, speeding out of the bazaar.

* * *

Mohinder climbed out of the truck, grimacing as he touched his arm. He had parked the truck in Fahim's garage; seconds before the convertible drove by, tenting fell over the garage door and Fahim's men gathered in front of it with baskets and carts, pretending to sell produce. The scheme had worked, and now that the sarcophagus was safe from immediate danger, Mohinder approached the door to Fahim's house and knocked weakly.

Peter answered the door. "God," he said, cupping Mohinder's cheek, "you look horrible."

"Thanks," Mohinder muttered. He let his head fall into the crook of Peter's neck, the brim of his fedora crinkling in Peter's shoulder. Peter gently took off the hat, wrapped an arm around Mohinder, and led him inside. Noah and Fahim greeted them.

"The sarcophagus?" Noah asked at once.

"Safe," Mohinder answered, "for now. Tell me you found us a ride?"

Noah nodded. "An old friend will be taking us to America on his ship. We leave in a few hours."

"You need to rest," Peter said.

Mohinder lifted his head and stood up straight. "I'm fine," he said stiffly. He turned to Fahim and shook the man's hand. "Thank you, for everything."

Fahim inclined his head in response, a brief smile touching his face. "Godspeed," he said.

* * *

The docks were misty and quiet, bathed in the blue-white light of a crescent moon. Mohinder, Peter, and Noah stood beneath a sleek tramp steamer; across from them were Claire, Sandra, and Lyle. Noah approached his family and spoke with each of them, talking to Sandra last and kissing her deeply. The four of them converged in an embrace for a long moment before Noah broke away and retreated back to Mohinder and Peter.

"I'll tell the captain we're about ready to leave," he said, his voice controlled, and walked up the gangplank onto the ship.

Mohinder and Peter moved together toward the Bennets. Peter hovered in front of Claire; they looked at one another in silence for a moment, dampness already staining Claire's face, and then she flew into his arms, choking back tears.

"Try not to die, okay?" she said into his shoulder. "Or, at least, get your powers back or something, so that I know I'm keeping you safe. Okay?"

Peter smiled. "I'll try," he said, pulling away.

"And when you're done with all of this, I expect letters from you," she added. "No excuses."

"No excuses." He wiped the wetness off her cheek with his thumb. "Goodbye, Claire."

"Bye," she said through sniffles.

Mohinder ended his embrace with Sandra, saying, "I'm sorry about Mr. Muggles, Sandra. I wish there was something I could do."

She brushed it away with a sweep of her hand. "It's alright," she replied, though her face looked pained. "My family is safe, that's what's important. Take care of yourself, Mohinder. And you too, Peter."

Peter nodded. "Keep an eye on your sister, okay, Lyle?" he said, and Lyle smiled, shaking his head yes. They all exchanged embraces for a last time, and Peter and Mohinder boarded the steamer.

They found Noah speaking with the captain on the other side of the deck. "Bloody hell," the captain said to Peter as he and Mohinder walked over to meet them. "You haven't changed a bit, have you? Same damn hair falling over your face, I see. Wasn't cute four years ago and still isn't now, mate."

Peter blinked. "Claude? You … you're a _ship captain_?"

"I prefer the term pirate," Claude said, rolling back on his heels.

"Wait, this is the Claude that trained you in New York?" Mohinder asked Peter. "I thought you said he disappeared?"

"Yeah," Claude cut in, "four _years_ ago. I'm allowed to reappear, last I checked. And from what Bennet tells me, you lot might well consider disappearing yourselves, now that you've gone and chucked so much shit at the Company's fan. Lucky for us," he continued, grinning, "I can get you and your dead girl back to the States before those Company bastards know you're even gone."

"And we'd best get going," Noah added. "We ready to set sail, Claude?"

Claude nodded. "Leaving in a few minutes, actually. Let me show you to your rooms." Clapping a stunned Peter on the back, he led them all to their cabins.


	7. Chapter 7

**VII.**

Mohinder was hunched over on the cot in his room when Peter entered. A robe tied around his waist, the younger man carried a bowl of water and a towel with him, setting them on a table before slipping off his garment. He had dressed in clean trousers and was stripped of his dirt-caked blouse, his pale skin painted cream in the moonlight poking through thin blinds.

Mohinder watched him pick up the bowl and towel again and perch on the edge of the bed. "How are you doing?" Peter asked, eyeing a smear of blood on Mohinder's forehead.

"Fine," Mohinder said. Peter seemed unconvinced. "Where've you been?"

"Just talking to Claude," Peter said as he soaked the towel with water. He chuckled, shaking his head. "I never would have expected to see him in a place like this. But it seems he and Noah reconnected over the years, and now Claude helps him out from time to time. Noah's with him right now. Here," he added as a grimacing Mohinder slowly peeled off his own shirt, "let me help you."

"No, no, I'm okay." But Peter's hands were already skimming over Mohinder's back, pulling the button-down away from Mohinder's arms. "Ow," Mohinder gasped as the shirt came off. "Peter, I'm fine. I don't need any help."

"You haven't let me help you this whole time," Peter countered as he tossed away the shirt. "Let me do this." He examined the bandage wrapped around Mohinder's arm before taking up the towel and dabbing it over a cut in Mohinder's chest. Peter's fingers grazed the fuzz of curls that surrounded it.

"That hurts," Mohinder hissed through his teeth, shrinking away from the towel.

A smile hooked Peter's lips, and his fingers trailed down dark skin. "I don't remember all of these," he said, passing over old scrapes and scars scattered across Mohinder's torso. "You're not quite the man I knew two years ago."

"It's not the years, Peter," Mohinder sighed, "it's the mileage." He slowly twisted around, trying to lean back into the sheets. Peter took Mohinder's legs and brought them up onto the bed, but Mohinder resisted. "_Ow_," he said again, more irritably this time. "Please, Peter, I don't need a nurse. I just want to sleep."

"You're such a baby." Peter kneeled over Mohinder's recumbent form and moved to another cut, this one straggling across Mohinder's shoulder.

"Peter, please, just go away—"

"Does this hurt?"

"_Yes_." He swatted away Peter's hand. "It hurts. Okay?"

Peter sat up in a huff, arms akimbo. "Well God dammit, Mohinder, where _doesn't_ it hurt?"

"Here," Mohinder grunted, jabbing a finger at his elbow. Peter hesitated, then leaned over and kissed the spot, looking up with impish eyes.

Mohinder swallowed. "Here," he said again, pointing to a patch just beneath his fedora. Peter tipped off the hat, letting it flop to the floor, and pressed his lips against Mohinder's forehead, catching a curl on his tongue.

"Right here's not too bad," Mohinder mumbled when Peter drew back. He rubbed a sheepish finger over his eyelid. Peter's breath played across it as he leaned forward, cupping a hand over the nape of Mohinder's neck. As they parted, Mohinder gazed into wildfire eyes, his mind hazy and warm.

When Mohinder's finger touched his own lips, Peter's mouth stumbled into a crooked smile. He dipped forward, and their breaths passed in whispers across lips and tongues, heartbeats trembling together. Peter nudged one hand into Mohinder's damp hair and placed the other over a stubbled cheek. For a moment Mohinder pressed his fingers into shoulder blades that shuddered like waves at his touch; but with a happy sigh his hands fell away, and Peter felt Mohinder's sun-cracked lips soften and settle. Peter opened his eyes and pulled back, puzzled; then Mohinder's head lolled to the side, a soft snore fluttering from his nose.

"Mohinder?"

Peter looked at Mohinder's dozing face and sighed. "You never seem to get a break, do you," he said quietly, stroking Mohinder's cheek.

* * *

Mohinder shifted over the sheets and felt something heavy across his chest. He looked down. Peter's head was curled over his heart, rising and falling with Mohinder's steady breathing. The rest of the young man was wedged between the cot and the wall, one arm sprawled over Mohinder's stomach. Mohinder smiled, resting his hand atop Peter's head and brushing back the thick hair. Through the window blinds he glimpsed an orange sliver of light peering above the waters, the sky otherwise gray and dusky.

Mohinder felt a change in the rhythm of Peter's breathing. When a finger traced around his belly button, Mohinder gasped softly and sucked in his stomach.

"Don't tell me your belly button hurts, too," Peter murmured. He turned his head until he was looking up at Mohinder with grinning eyes.

"Nah, just tickles." Mohinder yawned, clicking his tongue. "I seem to recall choosing a bad time to fall asleep last night."

"Mmhmm."

Mohinder twirled his finger in one of Peter's locks of hair. "How can I ever make it up to you?"

The sheets rustled as Peter slid off to the side, propping his head on his hand. "Well," he said, glancing out the window, "looks like we still have some time before we have to get out of bed. And you've already rudely woken me up and everything, so …"

"So?"

"So make it up to me, Mohinder."

"Well, if you put it that way," Mohinder whispered, and he pulled Peter into his arms.

* * *

Peter woke up a few hours later to the click of a pistol.

He opened his eyes. Mohinder stood on the other side of the room, fully dressed, holding his revolver.

"What's wrong?" Peter asked, rubbing sleep out of his eyes.

Mohinder stuffed the gun into his holster. "The engines have stopped. I'm going to go check it out." Peter watched as the door closed behind him; then he ripped off the sheets and rushed to put on his clothes.

Mohinder burst onto the bridge to find Claude and Noah arguing. "What happened?" Mohinder insisted.

"I was just on my way to find you," Noah said, pulling Mohinder toward the glass windows surveying the sea. "Look."

Mohinder did. A massive submarine floated above the surface, several rowboats trailing out from it toward the steamer. "Shit," Mohinder muttered.

"You and Peter need to disappear, now," Claude said quickly. "I'd tell you that Peter should turn you invisible, but since the arse has gone and made himself impotent—"

"Not to mention the Haitian will probably be onboard soon," Noah said. "Abilities will be useless. Where's Peter?"

"Still in the room. I'll go back to get him. Noah," Mohinder added, "if anything happens, you and Claude need to get back to the States and make contact with the FBI. I'm following that sarcophagus, wherever it ends up."

Noah hesitated, then nodded. "Try not to get yourself killed."

"Always do," Mohinder said, and he left the bridge toward the cabins.

Mohinder bolted through the corridors of the ship, flying past scurrying crewmembers and skirting around armed Company men as he descended below deck. His feet paused at the bottom of the steps as voices echoed in the hallway to his room. Suddenly he saw Peter being shoved into the wall directly across from their cabin; Mohinder ducked out of sight as two thugs took hold of a struggling Peter and began to lead him to the stairs. Mohinder turned down another hallway and disappeared into the ship's maze.

On the deck of the ship, Claude watched as the Company rounded up his crew. He stood across from Nathan, Sylar, and the Haitian, looking at Nathan with something like amusement on his face.

"And what are you staring at?" Nathan snapped.

Claude smirked. "Your brother never believed me, back in the day, when I said you weren't worth his effort. And now, here you are, hunting him down like a dog." He chuckled. "Guess Peter should've listened to me after all, eh?"

Nathan's mouth vanished into a thin line, but he said nothing.

Parting through the swarm of crewmembers, several men advanced toward Sylar carrying the crated sarcophagus. "Take it to the submarine," he told them, and they disappeared again into the crowds. Peter and his captors emerged in their wake, Peter's face lined with anger. He exchanged glares with Sylar, then yanked his arm out of a captor's hold and swung. But Claude caught the arm first, twisting it around and pulling Peter backwards. Sylar laughed, turning to address his men. "And what about Suresh? Bennet?"

"No trace of them yet, sir," said a Company man across the deck.

"They're dead," Claude announced. "I killed them both. Bennet betrayed me once, and he was about to do it again. But this one," he continued, nodding to Peter, who Claude held back in a loose chokehold, "this one I have special plans for. He nearly handed me in four years ago, and I bloody well never forgot it. Take your damn sarcophagus; I've got no need for a dead girl. But leave the boy with me."

Sylar considered Claude with calculating eyes. "Peter Petrelli is too powerful a man to leave stranded on a ship. He'll come with us."

"Ah, but that's where you're wrong, mate," Claude said. "The lad's got a bleeding heart, you see, broken to pieces after I killed his pretty little boyfriend. He's powerless, no use to you. No harm in letting me have my way with him."

"You are not in a position to ask for anything," Nathan said coldly. "Peter goes with me." He strode forward, ripped Peter out of Claude's hold, and led his brother back to Sylar and the Haitian's side. Peter wriggled out of Nathan's grasp but stayed put, exchanging a look with Claude.

"Back to the submarine," Sylar barked to the Company members. "We have what we came for." As the armed men dissipated from the swarms of crewmembers, Sylar stepped forward, leering at Claude.

"Cheers," Claude said, flashing his teeth.

Sylar clipped his shoulder as he walked away, followed by Nathan and the Haitian with Peter between them. When the Company had all rowed away to the submarine, Claude and his men leaned over the side of the ship, watching the waves.

"Think they'll torpedo us?" said a voice. Claude turned; Noah stood beside him, cleaning his glasses with his shirttail.

"Nah," Claude answered, "we're not important enough to them. I take it you found a hiding place well enough. Seen Suresh?"

Noah put on his spectacles and shook his head. "Can't find him anywhere—but knowing him, he's going after Peter. Although, he left his fedora in his room, which I'm sure he's devastated about."

"Well, he's got to be here somewhere. Keep looking."

Noah glanced again at the submarine. Suddenly he grinned. "Found him."

"What? Where?"

Noah pointed to the sub. Claude squinted; and there was Mohinder, crawling up out of the water onto the top of the vessel and jogging toward the periscope. The crewmates on the steamer cheered, and Claude laughed.

"Well, the bugger's more resourceful than I figured," Claude said, smiling. "Should we follow?"

"The submarine? Only if we want to get killed," Noah said. "I say, stick with Suresh's suggestion and head to the States. At this point there's not much else we can do."

Claude nodded. As the submarine descended below the water, the steamer hummed to life and set out across the sea.

* * *

A new sun was rising above the stained-glass waters by the time the submarine reemerged. The vessel had reached an island seemingly in the middle of the ocean, marked by jagged stretches of crags and sharp rock as well as sandy flatlands. The vessel coasted inside the mouth of a wide cavern at the base of one of the taller crags, where the rock opened up into a vast docking bay lined in cement walls and bathed in artificial light. A channel of water extended into the docking bay, flanked on three sides by loading platforms; the sub settled within the channel, and soon men poured out of the vessel carrying the crate ashore.

Mohinder watched the scene from the loading platform, hidden behind a heap of supply boxes. Water dripped from his hair, drenched his clothes, sloshed in his shoes; he had spent the night hitched to the submarine's periscope, floating unnoticed beneath the stars. His eyes following the crate's course across the bay, Mohinder wondered if the smell of salt ground deep into his skin would ever dissipate.

He pressed his back against the boxes as a flurry of feet passed by. Two pairs of legs paused in front of the boxes, a familiar voice drifting from above.

"We'll open the sarcophagus here before taking it to Company headquarters," Sylar said to his companion. "Go and tell the men to prepare."

The companion's feet didn't move. "Sir," he said waveringly, "our orders are to take the sarcophagus directly to Angela Petrelli."

"Your orders come only from me," Sylar growled. "We open it now." His voice became barely a whisper as he stepped forward toward the other man. "We've discussed this before, Anderson. I'm taking the girl's ability before we get to New York. And I'll take your head off, too, if you don't do as you're told."

"Yes sir," Anderson said quickly, and he scurried away. Mohinder waited until Sylar's footsteps faded before peeking out from behind the boxes again. He watched as Nathan, Peter, and the Haitian walked along the platform on the other side of the channel. Nathan and Peter looked coldly at each other but said nothing. Sylar approached them, his coat sweeping behind him.

"We're opening the sarcophagus as soon as my men prepare a site on the island," Sylar told them.

Nathan's eyes widened. "What? Why? My mother—"

"Your mother will not want to be disappointed," Sylar said. "We'll test the incantations carved in the lid of the sarcophagus now, to make sure everything works as the legends say, before bringing it in." He turned to the Haitian. "Is Peter truly powerless?"

"I have not been blocking anyone's abilities since the submarine arrived in the docking bay," the Haitian answered. "Peter has had many chances to try to escape. He has not."

"Good. Then you stay here while the sarcophagus is being opened," Sylar said. "I'm sick of you causing trouble for me wherever I go. Nathan, take your brother with you. We're leaving for the site now."

Sylar, Nathan, and Peter led a swarm of a few dozen men and the sarcophagus down a tunnel in the belly of the cavern. Mohinder crept through the docking bay and followed them, keeping himself hidden in the shadows.

* * *

Light spilled over the winding canyon, peaks melting into zigzags as the late afternoon sun stained the rock orange and gold. Shadows extended across the desert path in sharp lines like the crags themselves. Mohinder darted among these polygons of darkness at a fair distance from the crowd of Company employees and the sarcophagus, the salty ocean waters that had soaked him just hours ago now replaced by salty sweat.

The sarcophagus bobbed above the sea of Company heads, but Mohinder's eyes focused just on one man trudging beside it. Peter's black shock of hair gleamed in the daylight, the backside of his head held high next to Nathan's silhouette. Mohinder was tired, exhausted by days of endless fistfights and explosions and gunshots; but whenever pale fingers tucked a lock of hair behind an ear, Mohinder found strength to push past his fatigue and continue onward across the hot sand.

The stragglers in the caravan were carrying an impressive array of weapons; after Mohinder sidestepped into a patch of shadow, he lunged forward and grabbed one of the stragglers from behind, whipping a hand over his mouth. A few punches later, the man lay sprawled in the shadows, and Mohinder started climbing up a stony hill flanking the path.

Below, Peter and Nathan walked side-by-side, the crated sarcophagus hovering on Nathan's left as flies buzzed around their heads. Peter looked through the corner of his eye at his brother. "Don't do this," he said quietly.

Nathan narrowed his eyes, still looking straight ahead. "I have to."

"No, you don't," Peter persisted. "I already told you, raising this girl from the dead is going to kill you, not cure you. There's no one in this world who can take your abilities away and make everything better. Plus, even if there was … flying is a part of _who you are_. Doesn't that count for anything?"

"Your abilities are gone," Nathan said sharply. "And you're still you."

"That's the thing, Nathan. I'm not. My powers are gone because I lost the people that make me who I am. Like Mohinder."

Now Nathan turned, considering Peter with insolent eyes. "Your … _feelings_ for Suresh are just another case of juvenile puppy love—"

"And you, Nathan," Peter finished, ignoring Nathan's interruption. "I've lost _you_. Mohinder had begun to work his way back into my life; but I'm starting to believe that my brother is gone from me forever."

Nathan turned his head back toward the road, answering only with a melancholy silence.

Peter had little time to comprehend this before a different voice sailed above the Company caravan. "Hello," Mohinder called. All eyes turned toward him; he stood atop a rocky plateau, a bazooka aimed directly at the sarcophagus.

The Company men shrank away from the crate and pointed their firearms at Mohinder. Nathan and Sylar moved out from the crowd in disbelief toward the cliff. Peter beamed.

"Suresh," Sylar moaned in exasperation, flinging his black panama into the dirt. "SURESH!"

"I'm going to blow up the sarcophagus, Sylar," Mohinder said simply.

Nathan placed his hands on his hips and sighed heavily. "Your persistence surprises even me," he muttered loudly. "Surely you don't think you can escape from this island?"

"That depends," Mohinder replied, "on how reasonable we're all willing to be. All I want is Peter."

If Peter's smile could stretch any wider, it did.

"And if we refuse?" Sylar asked.

"Then your Company has no prize."

Sylar laughed, retrieving his hat. With a sudden flick of his hand, the bazooka flew out of Mohinder's grasp and spun around, now floating in midair and pointing squarely at Mohinder. "Look around you, Mohinder," Sylar shouted, his teeth bared in a ghastly smile. "The Haitian isn't here to protect you from me this time." His fingers twitched, and the bazooka quivered.

"No," Nathan blurted, placing his hand on Sylar's arm. Peter tore his eyes away from the plateau to stare at his brother in bewilderment. "Don't kill him. He's valuable; we can extract information about the Helix Foundation from him once we return to New York."

Sylar considered Nathan for a moment, then nodded curtly. "Fine." The bazooka clattered lifelessly onto the cliff; Sylar swept his hand, and Mohinder felt himself being yanked through the air down toward the caravan. When his feet touched ground, Sylar snatched Mohinder's arm and held him close to his side. "Don't try anything stupid," he hissed. Nathan gripped Peter tightly and led him to the other side of the path so that the sarcophagus lay between the two prisoners. At Sylar's command the caravan began its trek through the mountains again, the sun already beginning to dip toward the hidden sea.


	8. Chapter 8

**VIII.**

The wind had started to howl through the crevices of rock by the time the caravan reached the site. The place was no more than a flattened clearing of rock, a round tableland wedged among the surrounding hills of stone. A few men brought the sarcophagus to the far end of the flatland, stumbling up plates of rock that ascended like steps toward an altar of sorts on the clearing. Sylar stood atop the altar, his eyes glimmering in the darkness that was now descending upon the place like fog. The sarcophagus was set before him; it had been removed from its wooden crate and now lay bare on the smooth rock. Floodlights erected around the flatland cast the coffin in an eerie light, the shadowy engravings of hieroglyphs standing out from the limestone in stark relief.

Mohinder and Peter saw all of this from the other side of the clearing. Their hands and legs were tied around the pole of one of the floodlights, their backs turned to one another; between them and the sarcophagus gathered the remaining Company men, all eyes glued to Sylar and the coffin. Nathan watched from the base of the steps, the artificial light drawing out the circles beneath his eyes.

Sylar gestured to a man standing near the altar, and the man walked up the steps, a piece of paper fluttering in his shaking hand. Sylar snatched the paper from him and glanced over the words, a Texan waitress on his mind.

"And you're sure you translated the hieroglyphs correctly, Anderson?" Sylar said to the man.

Anderson nodded. Sylar thrust the paper into Anderson's chest, and Anderson quickly stumbled down the stairs to melt back into the crowd. Sylar leaned over the sarcophagus and traced his fingers around the hieroglyphs etched into the form of the stone woman. Bright light and dark shadows extended his malevolent grin to inhuman proportions, his eyes dancing greedily above the coffin.

Suddenly he straightened, lifting his arms to the blue-black sky. The Egyptian incantations flicked off his tongue like the hiss of a serpent, ghostly words undulating across the moaning wind. Mohinder watched with an unflinching stare as the lid of the sarcophagus lifted under Sylar's command, floating away and to the floor.

Sylar reached his hand into the sarcophagus; delicate fingers wrapped in rags met his grip. Taking a deep breath, Sylar pulled.

Slowly, quietly, the woman called Asanet rose from her sarcophagus. Her whole body was wrapped in brown strips of cloth, clutching to her curves so snugly that she seemed to be coated in another layer of skin. Sylar let go of her hand and took a step back as she slipped out of the coffin, her ancient limbs imbued with a power and a grace that belied millennia of deathly imprisonment. Thin black hair spilled from her scalp like ink and folded over her shoulders. Only her eyes and mouth remained uncovered by the strips of cloth, her intense gaze framed by sweeping lines of shadowy kohl. With these dark, knifelike eyes she surveyed the scene around her, resting at last upon Sylar's glittering features.

She spoke, the ancient syllables rolling off her undead tongue. Her voice, though, did not sound like a human voice; rather, she uttered darkness, death, the cold and vacant nothingness of barren crypts and tombs.

"What's she saying?" Nathan said as her words faded into the wind. He looked paler than before, his forehead shining with cold sweat.

Anderson swallowed, wringing his hands. "She wants to know your name," he stuttered, pointing to Sylar. "Why you brought her here."

"She doesn't need to know my name," Sylar answered, his voice low, and he raised his index finger until it was level with Asanet's forehead.

Nathan lunged halfway up the steps, his eyes wide. "What are you doing?" he choked. "No—Sylar, stop!"

One of the Company men near the steps raised his rifle. "Sir, our orders are to—"

But Sylar wasn't listening. He snapped his free hand, and the clearing echoed with the clatter of guns hitting stone. By the time the weapons had whisked themselves up and over the surrounding crags, Sylar had already cut away the cloth over Asanet's forehead with his finger, her papery skin tearing open as though someone were ripping out a seam from her flesh.

Asanet screamed—not in pain or in fear, but in anger, her cries crackling in the air. She whipped her arm forward, pointing her own finger at Sylar, and the dark irises of her eyes began to fade away in a ghostly cloud of white.

Sylar looked into Asanet's pupil-less eyes, and suddenly his face changed. The malice in his features gave way to bewilderment, and he turned his hand, considering his palm with bemused wonder. His mouth fell open as he stared, and the wonderment melted into fear.

"No," Sylar whispered as he collapsed to his knees. He jerked out his hand toward Asanet, who loomed over him, cackling. Nothing. Again and again he thrust forward his hand, and again and again he watched as Asanet laughed, unharmed, her eyes boring into his own.

"No," he repeated, voice faltering, and he doubled over, wetness trickling down his face. Porcelain eyes blazing, Asanet lowered her hand and looked down in disgust at the form hunched before her feet. She spat out words in Egyptian, the clouds in her eyes drifting away.

"Fool," Anderson breathed in translation, his face white.

Asanet turned. The gathering of Company men took a collective step back, everything silent except for the breeze whistling over rock. Mohinder couldn't look away from the woman, her hair sailing in a gust of wind; but Peter's eyes followed his brother as Nathan took a tentative step toward the altar. Asanet spoke.

"She—she's asking you the same thing," Anderson stammered to Nathan. "She wants to know your name, why you're here. What you want from her."

But before Nathan could open his mouth in response, Sylar darted forward, leaping toward Asanet from behind. Asanet saw Nathan's eyes flicker and she spun around, grabbing Sylar's wrist before he could strike. She bellowed with rage and drove the fingers of her free hand into his throat, glaring at him with clouded eyes. Sylar tried to tear himself away from her stare but couldn't; blood oozed from his eye sockets and his nostrils and the corners of his mouth, his eyes rolling back into his head. With a rasping sigh his arms fell limp, his head lolling to the side. Asanet released his throat and he dropped, crumpling lifelessly to the ground.

As Peter wriggled futilely in his binds, familiar words echoed in Mohinder's head: _Her wrathful eye brings blood and terror to ungrateful souls_.

"Peter," Mohinder whispered urgently, "don't look at her. Shut your eyes, Peter, don't look at her, no matter what happens."

"But _Nathan_," Peter gasped, watching as Asanet began to turn toward his brother. For a fleeting instant Nathan glanced at Peter, his face strangled and uncertain. "Close your eyes, Nathan!" Peter screeched, squirming in the ropes around his wrists and ankles. "Close your eyes!"

Asanet looked up at the sound of Peter's voice, her eyes beginning to cloud over again. "Don't look at her, Peter!" Mohinder screamed, and as Asanet began to turn back to Nathan with a raised finger, as Nathan's face suddenly broke into a strange smile, as Mohinder saw Nathan's painting come alive before him, with a defeated cry both Peter and Mohinder squeezed their eyes shut.

They heard nothing at first, only silence. Then, slowly, the wailing began, waves of moaning and shrieking and hoarse whimpers that grew louder and louder the longer Mohinder and Peter waited helplessly in blackness. Mohinder imagined Asanet walking through the crowd of Company men, bodies falling wherever she looked, those with enough sense to run giving in and glancing back only to feel the life sucked out of them in a single moment. The gales of cold air mingled with the screams, howling alongside the dying groans that followed in the wake of Asanet's ivory gaze.

Eyelids still glued together, Peter craned his neck around. "Mohinder," he choked over the wind and wailing, "if we die tonight, if this is the end … I just need you to know something."

"I know," Mohinder replied, "I know." He groped for Peter's hand and squeezed it, their fingers pressed so tightly together that they felt each other's heartbeats throb through the skin. "I love you, too, Peter."

And as Asanet's footfalls echoed on the stone, the two of them twined their bound hands together until their fingers were numb, Mohinder twisting his head so that Peter's shallow breaths burned across his cheek. Soon the screams subsided, for there was no one left; only the two men, and the wind, and the footsteps forever moving closer and closer and closer.

Then, suddenly, a gunshot exploded through the air. Both Mohinder and Peter jumped in their flesh, their heartbeats pounding in unison, as Asanet's shrill cry erupted just a few feet in front of them. New, heavier footfalls descended upon the stone, and in a few moments the rustling of clothes and feet fell away toward the altar. With a hollow thud, Mohinder heard the sarcophagus lid slide into place; tentatively he opened one eye. "Peter," he whispered, and, letting their hands fall limp, both of them opened their eyes and looked upon the clearing.

The floor of the flatland was carpeted in bodies, pools of blood trickling over stone. And standing behind the closed sarcophagus was the Haitian, holding a revolver in his hand.

Peter's eyes immediately darted to the spot where Nathan lay. The older brother huddled in a fetal position upon the steps, his head leaning against the stone of the crag surrounding the clearing. Peter's breath shuddered as he recognized his own sketch displayed in front of his bleary vision. His limbs sagged in their binds, a strangled sigh catching in his throat.

Then, ever so slightly, Nathan's head stirred.

"Nathan," Peter rasped, his eyes growing wide. And as Nathan's eyelids fluttered open, Peter's hands and feet phased out of their binds; he sprinted toward his brother, leaping over fallen men and skidding through blood, throwing his arms around Nathan just as the older man struggled to his feet. They embraced for an endless moment, Peter laughing into Nathan's shoulder.

"You're crushing my lungs, Pete," Nathan said, and they parted, Peter keeping his hands on Nathan's shoulders.

Peter's face suddenly changed. "Your powers," he said, "did she take them from you?" Nathan shook his head. "But you were smiling, Nathan, before I closed my eyes. Like in the painting."

"It's because I realized," Nathan said, "what I really wanted." He looked pained. "I should've listened to you the first time, Pete. I'm sorry."

Peter squeezed Nathan's shoulders. "I'm just glad that I didn't lose my brother after all."

"Still tied up over here," Mohinder said dryly from the pole. Peter patted Nathan on the arm before rushing back to untie Mohinder's binds, pressing his lips deep into Mohinder's own.

"Your brother looks embarrassed," Mohinder whispered as they broke away from one another.

"He'll get over it," Peter answered, grinning. "Where's the Haitian?"

They looked around; the Haitian had left the altar and was now standing next to Nathan. Mohinder and Peter approached them, echoing Nathan's look of confusion.

"You saved our lives," Peter said to the Haitian. "Why?"

"Because the Company should never be allowed to wield the power of that sarcophagus," the Haitian replied. "The FBI will take great pains in making sure Asanet does not fall into enemy hands."

"You're their spy," Mohinder said, comprehension dawning on his face.

"Yes. Although, I believe my cover has been blown, seeing as Nathan and I are the only Company members to survive this massacre. I will assist you in bringing the sarcophagus to America."

Nathan looked at the Haitian as though he had never seen him before. "We have a lot to talk about," Nathan said, and the four of them approached the sarcophagus.

* * *

"You've done your country a great service," Matt Parkman said.

"And we trust you found the settlement satisfactory," added Audrey Hanson.

Parkman, Hanson, Mohinder, and Noah sat around a conference table within FBI headquarters at Washington, D.C. Mohinder, dressed in a dark suit, leaned forward on the table, tenting his fingers.

"The money is fine," Mohinder said. "But the situation is totally unacceptable."

"Where is the sarcophagus?" Noah insisted.

Hanson cleared her throat irritably. "I thought we settled this. The sarcophagus is somewhere very safe."

"From whom?" Mohinder asked sharply.

"Asanet's sarcophagus is a source of unspeakable power," Noah said, his voice rising, "and it has to be researched."

"And it will be, I assure you, Mr. Bennet, Dr. Suresh. We have top men working on it right now."

Mohinder leaned forward even further, eyes meeting with Hanson's. "Who?"

She stared at him, unflinching. "Top. Men."

Noah shifted back in his chair, seething. Mohinder only glared at Hanson, his eyes sullen and full of disbelief.

* * *

Miles away, in a cavernous warehouse, an old man finished boxing up the sarcophagus. After nailing the crate's lid into place, he stamped the side with the words "Top Secret" and shifted the heavy box onto a dolly. The rusty wheels squeaked as the old man pushed the crate down a wide aisle, past heaps upon heaps of identical crates and boxes that towered up to the limitless ceiling and out toward the unseen walls. The man turned a corner and disappeared into the darkness, bringing the sarcophagus ever further into the endless stacks of crates, where it was doomed to gather dust just like every other box piled deep in the government graveyard of forgotten secrets.

* * *

When Mohinder exited the FBI building only a few minutes later, Peter was waiting for him on the steps, decked out in a sleek black suit. "So what happened?" Peter asked. "You don't look very happy."

"Fools," Mohinder spat as he met Peter halfway down the stairs. "Bureaucratic fools."

"What'd they say?"

Mohinder shook his head. "They don't know what they've got there," he muttered, sighing.

"Well, I know what I've got here." Peter looked at Mohinder fondly. Then, as he lifted his hand, Mohinder's fedora materialized in Peter's grasp. "Oh, and Noah told me to give this to you," he said as Mohinder's face lit up. "He thought you might be missing it."

"He knows me too well."

"He knows how much I spent buying it for you in the first place," Peter grinned. "Come on," he added, tugging the tattered hat over Mohinder's head. "I'll buy you a drink."

Mohinder smiled, stuffing his hands into his pockets and offering his arm. Peter hooked a hand around Mohinder's elbow, and together they trotted down the steps onto the busy street.

-end-


End file.
